


A Bad Dream

by Whisky (whiskyrunner)



Series: Broken Toy [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-24
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:43:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 56,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskyrunner/pseuds/Whisky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, the recovery can be just as hard to cope with as the trauma. Arthur and Eames learn this the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Noncon, dubcon, violence, sexual violence.

Eames shut the bedroom door with a bang and was just about to sprint out of the flat when he was brought to a skidding halt in the middle of the living room. _Oh._ Not fair.

“Stop staring,” Arthur murmured when he felt Eames' gaze on him, not bothering to look up from his book.

“You really shouldn't spring these things on me when I have plans, you know, darling,” Eames told him, trying not to whine. “It isn't fair.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Arthur idly flipped a page. “And after ten months of living together one would think you'd be used to seeing me on the couch with a book by now.”

His tone convinced Eames all the more that he was doing this on purpose. Because, after all, almost ten whole months now and Eames really _wasn't_ used to all the little tics and habits that nobody else ever got close enough to know about him. Like, for instance, the fact that Arthur might have been neurotic about his work performance, but outside the warehouse, where he had no Cobb to please, he might actually leave a thing or two lying around, not in its place, and the world wouldn't end. It made Eames happy that Arthur was able to be an actual human being sometimes -- introduce a little organized chaos into his life now and then (which could have been why he tolerated Eames fairly well, not that Eames was a total _slob_ ; just that he wasn't as concerned about leaving rings on the coffee table by forgetting to use a coaster).

Another astonishing thing he'd learned about Arthur: On his days off, sometimes he would forego a suit completely, and would curl up on the couch with his feet tucked under him, wearing, say, jeans and a burgundy hoodie.

Designer jeans. But still.

Arthur, like Eames, preferred an ample amount of warning before being touched, but Eames couldn't resist and besides, there was something decidedly un-manly about having to say, out loud, “Can I cuddle you?”. Dropping onto the couch, he wrapped both arms around Arthur and hauled him in against his chest. Arthur made a brief, token effort at struggling and then gave in graciously.

“You were just leaving?”

“In a minute.” The hoodie was so soft in comparison to the suits and the collared shirts Arthur usually favoured. Eames ran his hands over it, loving how loosely it hung on Arthur's lean frame, and leaned in so he could press his face to Arthur's shoulder and inhale. Arthur tolerated this with good humour.

“Where were you going in such a hurry, anyway?”

“Lunch date with Ariadne,” Eames answered. He pressed a kiss behind Arthur's ear and loved the involuntary shiver he got in response. “Try not to be too jealous, darling.”

“I'll be too busy enjoying a nice quiet, empty apartment for that.”

“Oh. I get it. It's funny because you think you're not as co-dependent as I am. Cute.”

Arthur made a face and started to shove Eames' arm off. Eames squeezed him tighter and Arthur gave in again, allowing Eames to cuddle him while he attempted to go back to reading.

“Ari won't mind if I'm a minute late,” Eames said hopefully. He kissed Arthur's neck, up to his jawline. “A few minutes. Thirty, say.”

Arthur smiled but just like that the moment was gone, he was getting up and sliding out of Eames' arms and quietly gathering up the coffee mug he'd left on the coffee table. “Give Ariadne my regards.”

Eames squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his hands and counted backward from five. Slowly. He could hear Arthur clattering around in the kitchenette behind him.

“But I want to,” he said finally, his teeth gritted.

“I'll see you later, Eames,” Arthur answered firmly. Eames got up and left without looking at him.

 

+  
“You're going to say I shouldn't be cross with him just for being a gentleman, but there's a fine line and he's starting to edge from gentleman to treating me like a leper and I _really_ can't say I appreciate it.” Eames dunked a piece of bread into his soup vehemently, causing drops to fly onto the tablecloth. “I don't know how he can stand it; we sleep in the same bloody bed every night. And I know we tried it once and, yes, it was a bit of a fiasco but honestly, that must've been something like two years ago now. He ought to get over it.”

“It was six months ago, firstly,” said Ariadne, “and secondly, do you really think it appropriate for us to be discussing you and Arthur's sex life?”

“Sex life?” Eames echoed incredulously. “What sex life? Haven't you been listening?”

“Well, really. You might not be afraid of him, but I am.” Ariadne smiled as she played with the bread in her hands, shredding it into bite-sized pieces and popping them in her mouth. “How are the nightmares?”

He grunted. “I'd know if I could actually get some sleep.”

“It's bad again, huh?”

Eames nodded. “I'll be glad for this job. I think half the problem right now is that I have nothing to tire myself out with. Arthur's closed off _that_ delightful avenue, the cooking classes are over now and I've about exhausted my repertoire twice over, and I finished going through my book collection in about a month after it shipped.”

“Must be a pretty small collection,” said Ariadne.

“On the contrary, my dear,” said Eames, arching an eyebrow. “It is a very _impressive_ collection. It filled a small library at home. Various political, religious, sociological, psychological literature. Forging isn't all about studying a photo and creating a new face for yourself, you know. You have to be able to relate to every mark and know how to talk to them and make them trust you. You have to know not only _what_ your subject thinks, but also _how_ they think it. Essentially, you need to talk the talk _and_ walk the walk.” He raised both eyebrows at her. “I am extremely good at my craft, Ariadne. It isn't just a lark for me, you know.”

Ariadne's cheeks had gone quite pink. She stared at him. “I had no idea.”

“Poor spelling and no college degree do not indicate stupidity or illiteracy, Miss Ariadne,” Eames chided. “Shame on you for judging.”

She flushed red. “Oh, I didn't mean that! I just never thought -- you put so much _thought_ into it.”

“Neither did Arthur,” said Eames. “I think being introduced to my collection was the closest he's come to jumping my bones in six months.” He smiled, already fiddling with a napkin, his fingers itching for something to play with. “It does make me restless though. I don't know how I'm supposed to get any better if I'm sitting on my tail in Arthur's flat all the time, alone with my thoughts. I should be out there, researching for a job, training in the PASIV, something I can sink my teeth into.”

“Hopefully everything goes well with Cobb next week, then,” she said, smiling reassuringly. “And I don't see why it won't.”

“Yes, well. I might just lose my mind if I don't get to do this job, Ari. I mean it.”

At that moment a handsomely-dressed waiter appeared next to their table with a bottle of champagne and two glass flutes. Ariadne exchanged a few words with him in French and Eames watched, mystified, as the man uncorked the bottle and poured them two fizzing drinks.

“What's the occasion?” he inquired, when the man handed him one of the champagne flutes.

“Well, you.” Ariadne grinned sheepishly. “It's been ten months since you woke up, you know. I thought we should celebrate your progress. You really have made a lot of it.”

It was sappy and unnecessary and Eames kind of liked it, because at least someone was keeping track of how far he'd come, that wasn't him, and who knew something about what he'd struggled through over the past year. In some ways, sometimes, the recovery could be harder to fight through than the actual trauma. So he drank to Ariadne's toast, and threw in one of his own -- “To sanity” -- feeling self-indulgent but slightly warmed all the same.

“I just have to freshen up.” Ariadne slid away from the table. “Back in a minute, alright?”

He nodded and she disappeared. In a minute he'd drained the champagne flute and poured another drink, peering into the bubbly liquid as though it were holding some delicious secret. He missed drinking. Copious amounts of alcohol, that was. Arthur had put a stop to the self-destructive drinking benders before Eames could really sink into a state of alcholism. He'd also slammed the door shut on online poker, as soon as he found out that Eames had been spending all his sleepless hours playing into the night and growing steadily addicted. (Funnily enough, Eames was finding it very difficult to enter anything resembling a casino these days.) To occupy him, Arthur signed Eames up for French courses (which didn't really take) and cooking classes (which, absurdly, did), and bought him a gym membership.

Arthur was a good babysitter. He was an even better boyfriend, staying up at night with Eames or giving him back massages when he was stressed, and when he had to fly to Chicago for two weeks to do some legal dream work for a change, he wore the same shirt for two days so that it smelled like him and left it on Eames' pillow; and called him every night.

If only he would forget the chastity belt he seemed to have figuratively strapped to himself, Eames mused, twirling the stem of the flute idly in his hand. Then Eames could really reciprocate, show Arthur what being a good boyfriend was all about...

With no warning, a broad hand gripped him by the back of the neck and threw him hard into the table. Eames had barely a second to shove his hands out in front of him so that he didn't land face-first in the cutlery; the heel of his left hand hit the plate so hard it shattered and just like that he was bleeding from a long, stinging cut in his palm.

The smooth voice in his ear raked down his spine like glass. “Hello, Charlie.”

_No._

He braced to do something, leap up and throw a punch or maybe just fling himself aside, but things happened too quickly for his frozen brain to keep up. The chair was kicked out from under him and he hit the ground painfully hard, grimacing when he unthinkingly grabbed out with his bleeding hand. Catching movement from the corner of his eye, he rolled in time to avoid another dish that shattered on the floor where he'd been sprawled and spattered his jacket with soup.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

“Charlie,” the man positively purred, immaculate in a white suit. “I missed you.”

And then the square toe of his polished Oxford landed in the soft spot just beneath Eames' ribcage, and he crumpled up around it on the floor, his ability to breathe instantly extinguished. Fuck, _fuck_ , he was supposed to do something, he was supposed to, _something_ \-- look up, but he'd rolled partway under the table and couldn't see and he couldn't breathe and for at least ten harrowing seconds he thought he might actually die there, suffocating on the floor. And he could feel it happen, _Christ_ , no, he was scrambling to keep hold of his own skin, he couldn't change now; if he changed now, he lost. And his hold was slipping, his fingers sliding off that slippery precarious knife-edge of control.

_FUCK--_

His gun was digging into his spine, tucked in the waistband of his slacks. He reached for it and was forced to abort the attempt and roll aside again to avoid another smashing plate. And then hands were around his throat, those same impossibly strong, broad hands, hauling him up off the floor and shoving him against a table so that he was forced to bend backwards, hands scrabbling for purchase. All the other restaurant patrons were either eyeing the scene with bored disinterest or carrying on their conversations like Eames wasn't fighting for his life, here; like a shard of porcelain hadn't been buried under his jaw so that a trickle of blood was rolling down his throat, and he was Eames, he was _Eames_ , not twenty-one, not American, _not Charlie--_

_Lookuplookuplookuplookuplookup--_

He looked up. The shard bit even deeper but it didn't matter because he saw himself in the mirrored ceiling, made eye contact with his reflection and felt himself land squarely back in his own skin with a rush of sudden confidence. Grabbing the arm that held the porcelain shard to his throat, he twisted brutally and, when the man slipped sideways, he spun away and fluidly planted an elbow in his solar plexus. The man doubled over and Eames grabbed a handful of his hair and used his momentum to send him smashing into the table. There was a sickening crunch of breaking cartilege and Eames felt a hot, savage pleasure in his gut as he reached for his gun. The man rounded on him with a snarl, spitting out, “ _Slut_ ,” and grabbed his arm just as he began to raise the gun, and three rounds were fired in rapid succession, each bullet smashing a hole through the ceiling.

The struggle was brief. Hanging over them like a cracked shell that encased the soft innards of the dream, the mirror overhead began to splinter and break away. In one sudden rush, it crumbled inward with an immense crash of breaking glass and Eames felt a blinding pain--

He woke up with his heart bounding frantically in his chest, hands already searching his pockets until he found it: his totem. He closed his eyes and ran his thumb over the surface of the chip again and again, feeling its way along the 6 that had been gingerly carved into the plastic, his chest heaving for breath. Each time he stroked it, the number under his finger stayed the same. _Six. Six. Oh, Christ. Six._

“Eames!”

Ariadne was already awake, and tearing off the IV taped to her arm, she bounded out of the armchair she'd curled herself in. He opened his mouth to apologize, but all at once she was at his chair and her arms were around his neck. He was momentarily bewildered, but he didn't push her away. He didn't hug her back, either. This wanton display of pity was unprecedented and unwelcome. He stiffened.

Until she pulled away, and he realized, with even more bewilderment, that she was beaming.

“You did it!” she was saying. “You did everything, you remembered the mirrors, you didn't even change!”

And at her delight, slowly, even though he felt roughly like he'd been dragged behind a car for a mile over broken glass, Eames found the corners of his lips tugging upward, too. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely.

“That was great!” she cheered, and for one happy second, Eames let her glee in and claimed this small, twisted victory for his own, and felt what it was like to celebrate with somebody who knew just what a milestone this was for him. Even though it had been harder than swimming through tar. He'd done it.

Then the adrenaline started to leave him, and his hands were trembling.

“You should feel really proud of yourself, Eames,” Ariadne told him. “You couldn't have taken back control of the dream like that, even a few months ago.”

“It's not good enough yet, though,” he said quietly. “He shouldn't have been there at all.”

“It's the same guy, isn't it? He's the only one that keeps appearing now.”

“Yeah, he was ...” Eames glanced aside, out the window of her flat. “He was something of a regular, I suppose you could say.”

“I'm sorry he left such an impression on you.”

She was, too, which was really why Eames chose to share these dreams with her, and not anybody else. She understood more things than he necessarily gave her credit for. He hadn't had much of a reason to like her, before, but she was the one who'd seen his nightmare. Only a glimpse -- but enough that she'd been worried, seriously worried, for a long time afterward. Ariadne was nothing if not persistent.

He let her in because he didn't see that she gave him much choice in the matter, but more importantly, because she genuinely cared, and did not lie to him or create false hopes, and because, he'd soon realized, she did not flinch away from his memories and fears when he described them, or make him feel like he was less of a person. Ariadne was a female and as such could almost comprehend the things Eames felt when he woke up in the middle of the night, which was more than Arthur could ever give him.

That didn't make it a good idea for him to say, impulsively, “Look, Ari, there's something you should probably know about that one--”

“What?” she said at once, and he could have kicked himself. He hadn't meant for that to slip out; he'd just gotten caught up in the caring and sharing of the moment. He didn't know how to put words to what he'd wanted to say. It would be too much and try and describe the relationship with that particular client and how badly it had broken him inside. He was so glad she'd never gotten close enough to hear the man call him _Charlie_.

What he went with, eventually, was not an untruth: “I think he works in extraction.”

He didn't expect for her eyes to widen or the words that immediately burst out of her mouth: “I bet Cobb knows who he is!”

Eames blinked. That was not what he'd been driving at, not at all. “I think poor Cobb's had enough of my self-pitying malarkey,” he joked lightly.

“Don't be stupid, Eames, he'd be on a plane tomorrow if he thought he could help you with this. Cobb's probably worked with almost everyone in the business.” And God bless her, she was actually pulling out her cell phone and searching for Cobb's number. Eames reached out and gently folded the phone shut in her hand.

“That's not what I'm trying to say,” he said patiently. “What I mean is, I don't know who that man is, only that he's comfortable in the dreamscape. He could be an extractor. Or a forger. Or an architect.”

He could see her considering that, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth slightly. She slowly replaced the cell phone in her pocket.

“He might look different in reality,” she said.

“And he can change the dreams, more importantly,” Eames added quietly.

“Well,” said Ariadne, drawing herself up self-importantly, “it's a good thing you'll be working with me and Arthur, then. Because he won't even get a chance to change anything.”

Eames smiled, for her sake more than his. “Thanks.”

“Don't worry about it. Seriously -- take the week off from dreaming. It's going to go fine with Cobb, you just have to not worry.”

“Right.” He helped her pack up the PASIV before gathering up his coat. “See you next week, then.”

“Sure. And hey, Eames?” Her voice followed him from her living room to the door. “Good luck with Arthur.”

 

+  
Eames spent a long time chain-smoking on the balcony that night. Arthur's repeated summons, muted behind the glass door, fell on deaf ears. At his back, the bedroom light came on as Arthur prepared for bed, switched off as he attempted to sleep, and switched on again twenty minutes later when he evidently could no longer stand it. The balcony door opened.

“Are you planning on coming to bed tonight?”

“You took off your hoodie,” Eames observed sadly. That earned him a rare smile.

“You can cuddle it if it'll help you sleep. Like a teddy bear.”

“Well,” said Eames demurely, throwing down his cigarette and crushing it under the toe of his shoe. “When you put it that way.”

Arthur drew back, relieved, but Eames hesitated on the balcony and raised an arm. He beckoned Arthur with a tilt of his head. Arthur sighed at the plaintive request, but not with any real conviction. He stepped onto the balcony and allowed Eames to fold him into a tight hug, his own arms wrapping around the forger's waist. Eames closed his eyes, his chin resting on Arthur's shoulder, and breathed deep. Arthur had showered. Ungelled, his hair was soft and chocolate-brown and it curled around his ears, and it smelled fantastically good, and Eames stood there for at least a minute just drinking in the scent of him.

Arthur had teased Eames for practically fetishizing his scent, but the truth was that it was as much a totem for Eames as the poker chip in his pocket, and he was pretty sure they both knew that. And anyway, it wasn't always something sexual. Eames' libido came and went like the tide. Earlier, Arthur looking this damp and mussed and wearing just a t-shirt and pyjama pants might have undone him. Now there was nothing Eames wanted less in the world than sex. He was never sure which extreme was the more embarrassing.

“How was lunch?” Arthur asked conversationally into his shoulder.

“It was good.” Eames' nose burrowed deeper into the warmth of Arthur's neck. “You smell very good, darling.”

“I try.” Arthur pulled away, took Eames by the hand and led him into the bedroom so that he could shut and lock the balcony door. Eames thumbed the poker chip in his pocket compulsively before he started to peel off his clothes, stripping to just his boxers while Arthur crawled back into bed and switched the lamp off. Eames laid his chip on the bedside table before joining him, numbered-side down, so that Arthur wouldn't accidentally see the two notches Eames had scratched crudely into the smooth groove of the 6. Just in case. In one of Arthur's dreams, the chip would only bear the number. Eames knew he was in reality when he felt those two tiny notches under his thumb.

Or in his own dream. But he couldn't go down that road, not again.

He went through all the motions of a person preparing to fall asleep. He stretched out, he made himself comfy, he rolled onto his stomach and pulled one of Arthur's pillows over his folded arms so that he could bury his face in it and breathe the scent of it all night. He closed his eyes.

It was just--

Sometimes. All he saw imprinted on the back of his eyelids were the brilliant lights of a vibrant casino.

“Oh.” Arthur was shifting around, getting up and moving around in the dark. Something soft hit Eames in the head with a dull thud. “There you go.”

Eames grunted, then grabbed the mystery bundle and pawed it open. He squinted. The burgundy hoodie.

“I don't _really_ need it,” he said, suddenly feeling stupid.

“Just in case,” said Arthur, already slipping back under the covers with a stifled yawn.

Eames made a non-committal sound and moved to toss the hoodie aside, but at the last moment, when he was sure Arthur's eyes were closed, he tucked it under his pillow. Just in case.

 

+  
The first time they tried anything resembling sex, it had happened like this: Eames was still relearning everything about being himself -- his real self, not the self who flinched from harsh words and dropped to his knees in supplication. He had good weeks, where the world seemed to make sense and _he_ seemed to make sense, and he wanted to go out and get busy learning how to be a normal, proactive member of society again. And he had bad weeks, where all of reality seemed to have tipped itself upside down and he couldn't figure out what was meant by anything Arthur said and he sometimes thought he was still dreaming, and panicked. That was before his brain seemed to have built up an immunity to Arthur's scent, like bacteria with an antibiotic, so he could sleep, but when he slept he dreamt, and when he dreamt it was always lucid and vivid, hi-def with surround sound, and it scared him nightly.

He'd been wavering somewhere in the middle of these two poles when it actually happened -- scared to death but so fucking desperate to prove to himself -- to prove to _Arthur_ \-- that he was okay.

Arthur, for his part, had been a perfect gentleman from day one, not so much as touching Eames without first stating his intentions or asking his permission. He'd taught Eames to do the same thing, to avoid miscommunications. He not only suffered the nightly panic attacks but talked Eames through them without a word of complaint. He didn't so much as blink when Eames started using him as a personal soft toy, cuddling up to him in sleep.

And he made no sexual advances. None at all. Not even when Eames begged.

Which was why, when Eames snapped, he didn't beg. He climbed on top of Arthur and swallowed his protests with deep, desperate kisses. He slipped a hand into Arthur's boxers and stroked him to hardness and then slid down the bed and swallowed Arthur's cock down, and Arthur could barely form a coherent argument by that point. It was cheating and Eames knew it and he didn't care, because he thought he needed it, even if Arthur didn't.

Eames would argue that he had always been a champion cocksucker, which was fairly true, but five years of spending nearly every day on his knees certainly hadn't hurt his technique, either. That part wasn't when things went wrong. That part, judging by the choked variations of his name that Arthur managed to pant out, went quite well.

It was what came after. What he remembered was Arthur's hips bucking involuntarily the instant before he came, so that the head of his cock touched the back of Eames' throat without warning. And then he was on the bathroom floor, hunched against the side of the bathtub with the heels of his palms pressed painfully hard against his eyes to try and quell the traitorous tears that stung them, while Arthur sat on the other side of the locked bathroom door and didn't say anything. His vomit had made a humiliating, disgusting mess of the carpet next to Arthur's bed. He was done, he'd ruined this, ruined everything with Arthur. He understood then why Arthur never wanted to touch him: because he was dirty, stained, because he couldn't go to bed without bringing with him the memory of the hundreds of people who'd been there first.

In that moment, he could have died.

But he was getting better now. He _would_ get better. They had stolen five years' worth of sanity from him but they were not going to take this from him and Arthur, too. He would make Arthur want him again.

 

+  
The week passed by in a hazy blur of sleeplessness, and then Arthur was wearing a collared shirt and waistcoat one morning and Eames groaned because he knew what _that_ meant.

Cobb took a taxi from the airport to his hotel, where Arthur and Eames picked him up and met Ariadne at a restaurant where they had reservations. Eames was too exhausted to remember much about the meal -- he ordered whatever looked easiest to pronounce on the menu and listened with half an ear to Cobb's stories about James and Phillipa. After dinner, while they waited for the valet to bring Arthur's car around, Cobb took Eames aside and asked quietly, “How are you doing?”

Eames couldn't suppress a sigh. That was exactly the kind of lame question Ariadne didn't ask, which was, all things considered, why she was the only one he talked to about these things.

“Just dandy,” he said.

Cobb's expression was inscrutable. “Really,” he said.

“Really,” Eames said stubbornly.

“Look,” said Cobb. “There's a job. And we could use you, if you want to take it. Maybe you and I could do a quick training run in the PASIV, when we get back to Arthur's place? See if you're up to it?”

Ariadne had, of course, warned him that Cobb would do this, and he'd spent the past few weeks preparing for it, so it wasn't exactly a pop quiz. But it made his stomach knot all the same. Cobb was testing him.

“Absolutely,” he said, looking Cobb straight in the eyes. At least it was sleep.

Arthur dug the PD out of his closet at home and set it up in the bedroom for them.

“Don't get too possessive now, darling,” Eames purred, seated on the edge of the bed, when Arthur handed him an IV line. “Us being left alone together in the bedroom and all.”

The point man rolled his eyes and took the other line over to Cobb, who was sitting in a chair next to the balcony.

“Go easy on him,” Arthur cautioned before he left the room.

“Hey,” Eames snapped, rankled. He wasn't some delicate little flower. Arthur rolled his eyes, again.

“I was talking to _you_ ,” he said patiently, and shut the bedroom door.

“Ready?” Cobb asked.

“As I'll ever be,” Eames replied carelessly, and he pressed the button in the PASIV at his feet. In the next moment, he felt his back hit the mattress and then he was out.

 

+  
Cobb had, of course, had previous opportunity to peruse Eames' dreamscape, when it had still been -- _that_ place. Eames knew that if anything, any detail at all, reminded Cobb of that unhealthy dreamscape, his chances of getting back to work would be nil. What made Cobb such a good extractor was what made him a bloody nuisance now, poking around in Eames' subconscious with that eidetic memory of his. Eames followed him without speaking as Cobb navigated a faintly Venetian city, half grumpy at this arrangement, and half terrified he was going to ruin this by introducing something else to his dream somehow. Almost everything had been wiped clean from his dreamscape; he'd painstakingly deconstructed that monument to his torment and started fresh, with Ariadne's help.

As far as Cobb knew, this was his first time going under in ten months, and the extractor took his time soaking everything in. Cafés, canals, cobblestone. And projections, bustling about in colourful clothes. No fountains, and definitely no big bridges. Still, Eames' heart thudded in his ears every time Cobb stopped to look at something more closely. If he lost control of this dream like he had last week...

A flash of white in the corner of his eye made his mouth go dry. His head snapped round quick enough to catch a glimpse of the man in the white suit, just as he melted back into the crowd, going in the opposite direction. Eames found that he could breathe again.

“This is good,” Cobb said, turning to face him. “I'm impressed.”

“Thank you,” said Eames cordially.

“You've come a really long way, Eames.” Cobb dug a handgun out from under his jacket. “I don't mind cutting this short, if you want.”

Relieved, Eames took the gun, pressed the muzzle to his temple and squeezed the trigger. Cobb followed him quickly, before the dream could collapse.

“I noticed the mirrors,” Cobb said, as Eames was woozily tugging the IV out of his arm and sitting up on the bed. “A good idea. They're subtle.”

“Ariadne's idea,” Eames confessed. “Once I'm actually forging I won't need them, I'm sure.”

“It's smart.” Cobb was still sitting in the chair. Eames turned around to face him while he went on, “I appreciate the effort you've put in to regain control of your subconscious. I'm sure it wasn't easy.”

The last few words became fuzzy as the heartbeat in Eames' ears swelled to a thick, loud pulse. Distantly, he heard himself say, “What's that?”

“What's what?” Cobb twisted around to look out through the balcony door, but Eames didn't need Cobb to tell him. He'd recognized it the instant he'd laid eyes on it. Tower Bridge.

It was like somebody had gripped his lungs in an iron vice and plunged them into freezing cold water. The tips of his fingers were going numb. He wondered if he was about to faint.

“Cobb,” Eames said hoarsely. He'd been about to say something to the effect of _we need to get out of here_ , but had suddenly realized that he couldn't move. Not an inch. Very faintly, he could hear the cheery jangling of slot machines below his feet.

“Eames, breathe.”

Oh, no. _No._ It had happened, he had been waiting for this to happen, he'd been hiding here all along and making up his own dream and now he was back, he was back here, in this place, _he was back_...

“Take a deep breath,” Cobb told him sharply, but Eames couldn't do it; he only seemed to be breathing in. He tried to stagger upright, shaking, and didn't understand why the room tilted steeply until he hit the floor. So he just curled up there, tight, arms over his face.

“Fuck.” The word had to be squeezed out of his throat. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _Please_ , no--”

Cobb was kneeling next to him suddenly, resting a hand on his shoulder, and Eames jerked violently away from him. Couldn't be touched. Not in this room. He was supposed to be safe here, he was supposed to be safe -- the noise from the casino below was rising and he was gasping in such shallow breaths he felt lightheaded. His head was resting on the carpet and he was scared to open his eyes, terrified of what he might see, afraid he would completely lose control and fly apart and not ever be able to put himself back together.

“Deep breaths,” Cobb urged him. Eames could barely hear him, but some faint note made it through the stupour. Deep breaths. He took one.

Then he lunged to his feet and launched himself at the bed, like he had only seconds before the floor opened up beneath him. Cobb shouted, “Wait!” but Eames' hand had already closed around the gun under Arthur's pillow and, yanking it out, he shoved the muzzle into his mouth--

And woke up, on the bed, his heart racing fitfully.

He twisted over. There, through the balcony door, he could see the lit-up Parisian cityscape. No bridges. The floor below theirs was silent. He could hear the TV, muffled, in the next room, some French news report. He rolled over and buried his face in one of the pillows, while one hand shot down to his pocket to check his totem. Both his hands were shaking.

He could hear Cobb waking and then packing the PASIV up calmly. Eames waited till he'd wrestled his breathing back under control, then rolled over and got up.

“Eames,” Cobb started, and was cut off when Eames hit him across the face as hard as he could.

“Fuck you,” he grated raggedly. He was still panting lightly. Now his hand hurt. “ _Fuck_ you, Cobb.”

“Eames,” Cobb tried again, rubbing his jaw.

“You did that. You put that fucking bridge there, and -- and the casino. What the fuck were you playing at?”

“Actually, I only did the bridge,” said Cobb quietly, not looking him in the eyes. “The casino was you.”

Eames grabbed him by the front of his jacket and slammed him hard up against the wall. “I could _kill_ you, Dominic Cobb,” he seethed through his teeth.

The door opened and Arthur was there in an instant, grabbing Eames by the arm. “Eames! What are you doing?”

“Why?” Eames shouted at Cobb. “Did you think it would be a laugh? What?”

Cobb grabbed his wrists in a flash and shoved hard. As strong as Eames was, Cobb was stronger. He stumbled backward, shouldering Arthur on his way.

“I thought it would tell me what I needed to know,” Cobb said, too calm and not apologetic enough. “Give us another minute, Arthur.”

Arthur was still hovering at Eames' shoulder, watching him as though there might be visible damage, and Eames didn't know if he was being protective or waiting to figure out what was going on so he could undoubtedly side with Cobb. At last, reluctantly, Arthur started to leave the room.

The gaze he fixed Cobb in before closing the door was filled with so much vehemence it was almost breathtaking.

“ _Don't_ put him back under,” he warned, his voice quiet and deadly sincere.

Then he was gone. Eames stared after him. Protective. He somehow hadn't expected. It made his chest tighten in a strange way.

“Eames,” said Cobb, straightening out his jacket. “I have to know that you'll be able to do this.”

“That was a foul thing to pull on me, Cobb,” Eames growled in a low voice. “The nice, bridge-less dream wasn't good enough for you?”

“You're not going to be designing the dreams for this job, Eames. You're going to be navigating a dream filled with whatever Ariadne or the mark puts in it. When you meet a trigger, I need to know you won't blow the whole job for us.”

“I really don't foresee Tower Bridge posing a significant threat, funnily,” Eames snarled, his blood pressure rising dangerously. Cobb met his gaze levelly.

“We need a forger for this job because we need a specific type of young woman that can make herself vulnerable to our male mark. It could be a little too familiar for you.” He let Eames chew on that for a few seconds before continuing, “I have to be one-hundred percent sure that you've got both feet in reality before I let you do this job. For your sake, but also because this job's too important to mess up.”

“So you think it's alright to fool around in my head like that,” Eames snapped. “What if you'd messed _me_ up, Cobb? What if I completely regressed because of you?”

“I didn't think for a second that you would,” said Cobb evenly.

Eames couldn't think of anything to say to that, so he just paced angrily back and forth for a minute or two. If he were a cat his tail would have been lashing.

“So that was a, what, a test?” he demanded loudly at length. “Didn't pass it, though, did I?”

“Actually, you did exactly what I hoped you would. You went for the gun. You removed yourself from the dream. You knew you had to wake yourself up, even if it wasn't a conscious thought at the time. You didn't let yourself get trapped in there.”

Eames hunched his shoulders, faced the wall, dug a cigarette out of his pocket and lit up. Arthur would complain about the smell later but he didn't particularly care right then.

“If you just want somebody to fuck around with, then get yourself another forger, Cobb. I'm not putting up with this.”

Cobb sighed. When he spoke, there was an apologetic note in his voice for the first time. “I want you back at work, Eames. We all do. You know you're more than just a forger. The Fischer job was supposed to be impossible, and you formulated and carried out almost every step. You're the one who thinks of all the consequences and makes back-up plans for our back-up plans. In a lot of ways, you're even smarter than Arthur.”

“Flattery will get you only so far, you know,” Eames sniffed, even if he kind of liked hearing it.

“We can't do this job without you. But ask yourself and answer honestly if you feel a hundred percent ready to return to dreaming. If there's any doubt at all in your mind, tell me and we can walk away from this one.”

Eames turned around grudgingly. “What do you think?”

“Well, Arthur and I have been talking--”

“Yeah? What does Arthur say?” Eames interrupted.

Cobb shrugged. “Doesn't matter. I think you're ready.”

“Well, I am,” said Eames, more confrontationally than he intended.

“I'm glad to hear it.” Cobb dug a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a plane ticket. “Here. Your ticket to New York. Plane leaves in two days.”

“Courtesy of Air Saito, I'm guessing?” Eames took the ticket and examined it. “Not Newark, is it?”

“JFK,” said Cobb, giving him a strange look.

“That's alright then.” Eames stuffed the ticket into his own pocket. He eyed Cobb narrowly. “I'll do this job. But you're not pulling any more shit like that on me. Trust goes both ways, Cobb. You go on testing me like that, and I will walk away.”

“That's fair.” Cobb offered his hand. It was a long moment before Eames shook it.

In bed that night, after Cobb had left and the PD had been packed up and put away, Arthur surprised Eames by shifting up behind him and wrapping an arm cautiously around his chest. His breath tickled Eames' ear.

“If he's pushing you, or it's too soon, tell me. Okay? You don't have to do this.”

“I'll be fine, darling.” Eames took him by the wrist and wrapped Arthur's arm more snugly around himself. “Don't you worry about me.”

“I do, you know.” He could practically hear Arthur frowning. “I don't know what's in there, in your subconscious. Sometimes I wish I did.”

“Do you?” Eames asked quietly.

He could tell Arthur was stuck for words. Eventually the point man just seemed to give up, because he ended up not saying anything, and they were silent for the rest of the night.

+  
+  
+

Charlie was not Eames.

Charlie was a twenty-one-year-old art history student who thought Chagall was a visionary whose work managed to transcend religious influence while still retaining an indelibly hasidic spirit and brought the metaphor back to French formalism. Charlie was born and raised in Newark, New Jersey, and had never set foot in England in his life.

Charlie was _not_ Eames.

He was somebody Eames threw together in about five minutes, and it wasn't like him to be so last-minute, but he didn't think it would matter very much at the time. He received all requests beforehand -- else what was the point? -- and this one momentarily stymied him. He was used to specifics, right down to photographs and voices if they could be brought to his dream.

This one said: _blond, m, 21._

Awhile ago Eames might have had fun with this, savoured the opportunity to flex his forging skills. Any forger could mimic a real person (to varying degrees of accuracy): it was crafting an entirely new, _believable_ person that was the hard part. But he thought about it for a moment and then whipped together a disguise that he knew he'd be able to hold for some degree of time. Young, lean and fit, casually windswept blond hair, blue eyes.

Eames had never done anything to deserve what he suffered down there. Charlie probably had. Maybe he'd killed a dog or raped someone in another life. Somehow it helped to think that: Charlie deserved this.

The client was suprisingly attractive, with brown eyes and a disarming smile and a crisp white suit.

“Do you have a name?” he'd asked.

Eames thought about that for a moment. “You tell me.”

“You look like a Charlie,” the man said.

And Eames said, “Okay.”

 

+  
People like Arthur and Cobb fought until fighting seemed stupid, and then fought harder. And when they fought, they fought tooth and claw, with everything they had and then some, neither wavering nor submitting. It was what had made it so hard for Cobb to run away from his children, and then he'd scoured the world for the job that would take him home, no matter how impossible a task it seemed, because that was the only way he could keep fighting.

Eames was a survivor and a gambler. Yes, he had fought, damn hard. He'd clawed up the walls of the dream like a rat trying to escape, at first. But fighting had been proven to him, brutally and repeatedly, not to work. So he fell back on what he knew how to do: he adapted. He improvised. And he survived.

He wished he'd just kept fighting.

 

+  
The first time the man fucked him, something tore, deep inside. His cock was thick enough to make Eames feel with every hard thrust like he was being split in half, and he didn't pull out after he came; his erection didn't even flag. By the second go around Eames was bleeding freely and sometime during the third and fourth he bit the inside of his cheek so hard that it started bleeding, too. He started to panic that this man would never be done with him, would never be sated. He almost wept when the man fucked him a fifth time, it _hurt_ like broken glass, and then finally he was drawing away and getting up and Eames let his rubbery limbs give way and dropped belly-down onto the bed, shaking like a leaf. He couldn't remember ever having felt that fucked-out before, which was saying something, considering the nature of his role down there. He felt disgusting, which was always a given, but more disgusting than he had for a long time. His thighs were dripping liberally with blood and semen all the way down to his knees, staining the bed.

“Roll over,” the man said. Eames obeyed numbly. What else could he do?

The man was dressed again and there was no trace of breathlessness, not a hair out of place. He tilted his head.

“You didn't enjoy that, Charlie?”

Eames was too far beyond exhausted and in pain to come up with a response for that. The man approached the bed and the mattress dipped when he placed a knee on it and leaned over. Eames shut his eyes and braced himself for whatever was about to come next.

He did not anticipate a warm hand wrapping around his soft, neglected cock. He hissed sharply through his teeth, surprised. Had not expected that at all.

“Let's see if we can't cheer you up.”

He pushed three fingers deep inside Eames, making him arch off the bed with a choked sound of pain, lubricated them with come and his _blood_ , Christ, and Eames's fingers dug tight into the bed when that hand returned to his cock, because he didn't know what was going on. He was expecting at any moment for the man's grip to turn painfully tight, to hurt him; he didn't expect smooth, gentling strokes and a murmuring voice. It was like repeatedly going for a step that wasn't there, that same pitch in his stomach. His confusion was making his head throb. He hurt, so exquisitely, everything in him cramping like a burn up to the base of his stomach, and yet wanted to lean blindly forward into this unfamiliar touch. He was embarrassingly hard within seconds and his hips were pushing off the bed of their own volition, rocking him into the man's fist needily.

It took him about two minutes to come with a sound like a sob, biting his lip and letting his head fall back and hit the pillow. He felt like he'd been run over by a truck.

“That's better.” The man leaned down and pressed cool lips to his forehead -- Eames clamped his eyes shut. He felt the mattress spring back into place and heard the man walk across the room and open the door. “I'm sure I'll see you soon, Charlie.”

And Eames lay there for at least forty minutes out of the blessed hour he had to himself between clients, and even once he shakily managed to get up and clean himself off and forge himself a new body, he could still feel that searing burn all the way up his spine, along with the low thrumming in his stomach that had lingered since his orgasm.

That was the moment he could pinpoint every time he looked into Arthur's eyes and could swear he saw nothing but disdain and disgust there. This wouldn't have happened to Arthur. Eames tried telling himself that it hadn't happened to him, it had happened to _Charlie_ , and all the other countless identities he'd forged; but whenever he thought about it, he disgusted himself, too. All things considered, he probably did not deserve for Arthur to touch him in the ways he wanted. He barely deserved to sleep in the same bed with him.

This was the thought that haunted him at night when he couldn't sleep. Fucking disgusting.

+  
+  
+

When Arthur first brought him home, he hadn't known what to expect.

“So -- the kitchen -- obviously. There's not much in the fridge right now, but take whatever you want. And that's the kettle... Well. That's pretty much the kitchen, anyway.”

Eames nodded, taking it in, and kept glancing at him uncertainly. Obviously he wasn't sure what to expect, either.

“Down here's the bathroom,” Arthur went on, sidling into the short hall. “And -- well -- the bedroom.”

He pushed open the door, his hand faltering for just a second. He was aware that his bedroom had been part of Eames' dream, he just wasn't entirely sure in what capacity. He wondered nervously, was it alright? Had he changed something that had been integral to Eames' imitation room? Did it look like it was supposed to?

Eames was perfectly silent as he dropped to his knees on the threshold. He just stared.

“Okay,” said Arthur hastily. “Maybe we could sleep in the living room tonight. If it's too much for you?” This had been a bad idea, he knew it; he felt sick. “Eames?”

“No,” said Eames hoarsely, cutting into Arthur's thoughts. “It's... Could I... Could we sleep in here tonight? Please?”

“Yeah,” said Arthur, relief cascading into his chest. “That's fine.”

“Thank you,” Eames breathed. He reached down and touched the carpet with both hands. “Thank you so much.”

Arthur chose to hope that things would get better.

 

+  
“No.”

Arthur was on his feet. Eames, still sitting on the couch, looked momentarily bewildered, then wounded, then blank-faced.

“No,” Arthur repeated. “That isn't ... what we're doing here, Eames, that's not what this is about.”

Eames just tilted his head and let his gaze slide past Arthur back onto the TV. They'd found a program in English, some old movie neither of them had heard of, and it was pretty terrible, but at least it wasn't in French. And Arthur wanted to tear his hair out. He didn't know how to keep Eames' scattered attention on him for more than a minute; or, for that matter, how to deflect his attention when it was unwanted. It had been a whole week and this was still happening.

“Eames,” he said, half frustrated, half begging.

“I only wanted to touch you, darling,” Eames drawled softly, surprising him. “That's all.”

“That's all?” Arthur echoed warily.

When Eames looked up at him and nodded, Arthur decided to remain on his guard but sank back down onto the couch. Eames looked at his knee, then stretched an arm over and placed his hand gingerly over it, then just looked at his hand on Arthur's knee. Arthur couldn't decide if he looked more sad or pensive.

“Maybe you could just say,” he said, inexplicably tired all of a sudden. “When you want to touch me, or anything, just tell me what you want beforehand. So I know.”

Without looking up, Eames said, “I want you to kiss me.”

Arthur could not deny him because he wanted that, too. He closed his hand over Eames' and leaned over and Eames turned his head into the kiss, and it was slow and chaste, and it was nice. It was all the things Arthur had guessed a kiss with Eames _wouldn't_ be like, before. He would have expected teeth and tongue and bruising force, but this worked for him. This was good.

Maybe Eames just read his mind, though, because his hand left Arthur's grasp and came up to the back of his neck, and his other hand wrapped itself around Arthur's arm, and he was pulling their bodies together, pushing Arthur forcefully back against the armrest and prying into his mouth with naked want.

Arthur nearly fell over trying to get off the couch.

“I,” he started, and couldn't finish that sentence when he looked Eames in the eye. There were too many ways to end it.

_Can't do this. Don't want this. Have to leave._

But he was looking Eames in the eye and it wasn't him. It wasn't his forger. He was looking at someone else. So many times he'd found himself setting eyes on a stranger and knowing, innately, that it was Eames in there, wreaking mischievous fun in another disguise. It felt very strange to be in the opposite position: this was supposed to be Eames. And he just wasn't in there.

“I'm going to bed,” Arthur managed to force out, and he retreated, not before seeing Eames bury his face in his hands. He'd never felt like such an asshole.

 

+  
In Arthur's family, without aid of alcohol, physical affection was largely spurned. His parents had never felt comfortable indulging him with hugs or pats on the back, the same way they'd never really seen the need to say _I love you_. As an adult Arthur bristled away from such contact. He'd made an effort for Mal -- Mal gave nice hugs, the kind Arthur imagined a mother was supposed to give -- but when Ariadne returned to the team for the first time since the Fischer job and wrapped her arms around him, Arthur found that he'd gotten rusty, stiffening up uncomfortably all over again. Mal was gone: it had been a long time. Ariadne seemed to understand, because she'd given him a rueful smile and never done it again.

So he genuinely didn't know how to react when, that night, Eames finally slid into bed at around 1AM and said, falteringly, “Can I just ... put an arm around you, sort of?”

His voice was soft enough that it wouldn't have woken Arthur just in case he'd been asleep. He seriously considered faking it for a minute. At length, listening to Eames breathe behind him, he said, “Okay.”

He was tense, not sure what he should anticipate. He felt absurdly vulnerable, under the sheets in his own bed, with the warm solid weight of the forger behind him. That warmth shifted closer, and then Eames' arm was winding cautiously around his waist. Arthur swallowed. Every muscle was coiled, ready to react in case this turned sour.

But Eames' arm was slack. He didn't push his body up against Arthur's. He was just close enough that Arthur could feel the heat coming off him, but he didn't draw any closer. He pressed his face into Arthur's shoulder and breathed in, slowly, and Arthur found that he could breathe out.

He was pretty sure, after a minute, that Eames was crying, but he didn't dare roll over and remove his arm to find out.

 

+  
They had one relatively good month; and then Arthur woke from a light sleep in the middle of the night, missing the warmth of Eames' body. He rolled over in bed and located the forger at once: standing on the balcony outside the bedroom in the dark.

Arthur got up and approached, and he could see Eames' hands shaking so badly he couldn't light the cigarette hanging between his lips. Arthur opened the door, causing him to jump, drop the lighter, and curse.

“Here.” Without another word, Arthur picked up the lighter, plucked the cigarette out of Eames' mouth, put it between his own lips, and lit up. He took one drag and then gave it to Eames.

“Thanks,” Eames said.

It had rained. The balcony under their feet was slick and wet and a fine drizzle still hung in the air around them. Eames wrapped an arm around himself and smoked in silence. Arthur stood next to him and tried to discern the street through the mist, shivering.

When Eames had smoked the cigarette down to a stub, Arthur said, “Bad dream?”

Eames nodded. Dropping the cigarette, he crushed it with his toe, turned, and let himself fall into Arthur's arms without so much as a heads-up. He didn't weep -- he just breathed in. And Arthur held him.

“'M sorry, love,” Eames mumbled into his shoulder. Arthur held him tighter.

Before he knew what was happening, Eames was sliding down his body onto his knees, his face buried in Arthur's thigh while his fingers worked at the loose drawstring of Arthur's pyjama pants. Arthur stiffened.

“Hey. Hey,” he said, reaching down to grab Eames' hands. Eames leaned into him more insistently, nuzzling his cheek into Arthur's crotch, his hands working roughly. “Eames, come on, okay-- Stop!”

He managed to prise Eames' hands off him. Eames breathed raggedly against him and they were both quiet for a minute.

“Stop,” Arthur said softly, sinking down in front of him without letting go of his hands. The balcony was cold and wet under his knees. “You don't have to, you don't have to do that, Eames. Why do you do that?”

He saw a hundred desperate responses flash through Eames' bleak expression before he found the right words. “I want to make you happy,” he said, helplessly.

Arthur closed his eyes for a second. “There are other ways to make people happy,” he said. Eames looked down at their hands and Arthur fucking _hated_ that this was virtually new information to him now. “I mean ... I'm glad you want that. But you don't need to do that. That's not what I want.”

Eames' gaze flew back up to him, haunted. “You don't want--?”

“No, no, that's not what I meant.” Arthur leaned into him tiredly, their foreheads brushing. “I just mean ... I don't want you doing. _That._ ”

“I want to, darling,” Eames pleaded. “It's different if I want to.”

“I know, but it's still not what I want. It's not that I don't want _you_ , I just don't think you're making proper decisions right now. Maybe when you're better. But not right now.”

He was still holding Eames' hands. He realized this when Eames' relaxed a little in his. They were so close, almost breathing against each other's lips, and Arthur wanted so badly to kiss him. He wondered if Eames was desperate to do the same, and was holding himself back for Arthur's sake.

After several long minutes, Eames asked, “What other ways?”

His voice was huskier than usual, little more than a rasp. Arthur blinked. “What?”

“To make someone happy,” said Eames. “What other ways are there?”

“Oh.” Arthur paused. “Well... You can just spend time with them. Watch a movie with them. Have an ice cream with them.” He rubbed his thumb over Eames' hand gently, feeling out of his element. “Hold hands with them.”

“Go tie-shopping with them,” Eames suggested, an unfamiliar glint in his eye. “Rearrange all their DVDs in alphabetical order ... make spreadsheets for the chores.”

Arthur was so taken aback by the joke that he let a laugh slip out, a genuine laugh. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed for real, and he realized: that new light in Eames' eye wasn't actually unfamiliar.

Eames kissed him and it wasn't forceful or aggressive or rushed. It was deep and gentle and exploring, like he wanted to map every inch of Arthur's mouth. It was slow and it was perfect. When Eames finally pulled away he was smiling, and it was the most beautiful fucking thing Arthur had seen in his life, and they kissed again as it started to rain.

 

+  
It was like taking forty big steps forward, and then all at once taking forty-two steps back. So _fucking_ close to good again, and now--

Now Arthur was sitting with his back to the locked bathroom door, his head bowed.

“I made tea,” he said. The words sounded hollow. “There's three sugars in yours, the way you like.”

Silence.

“Come out, Eames. I'm not upset with you.”

More silence.

“Please.”

Silence.

Arthur sighed. He got up and returned to his bedroom and started to clean the vomit off his carpet. Nearly threw up himself when he found that milky white mingled with the bile.

Eventually, while he was throwing the stained washcloths into the washing machine, he heard the toilet flush and the bathroom door open. He found Eames in the kitchen, heating up the two cups of tea in the microwave. He passed Arthur's to him wordlessly, way too casual a gesture, and took a seat at the small kitchen table. Arthur sat across from him.

“Sorry about that,” said Eames, again, too casually. “Made a bit of a mess of your carpet, didn't I?”

“That's okay,” said Arthur. His head hurt. “It's cleaned up now.”

Eames raised his eyebrows. He took a sip of tea and pulled a face. “You're going to have to work on your tea-brewing skills, darling. It's like I've taught you nothing.”

Arthur clamped his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand. He was trying to figure out how this had happened and Eames was brushing past it just like that. He couldn't take it.

“I told you to stop,” he said abruptly. He wished at once that he could swallow the words back, not sure what had made him say them.

Eames' eyelids lowered. “You didn't mean it.”

The words came as a shock. Arthur floundered for a response. He'd expected defensiveness, or maybe aggression or hurt, but this...

“Yes, I did.”

“You were hard. You wanted it.”

It was like the ground had opened up underneath him. Arthur felt like he was falling. Like suddenly, he was very far away.

He could hear himself saying words he knew he'd regret even as they were coming out of his mouth: “Is that what you told yourself?”

Eames didn't look up from the table. Calmly, wordlessly, he swept his mug off the table and sent it smashing across the kitchen floor. Then he stood up and walked back to the bedroom. Arthur heard the door slam shut.

He got up numbly and started cleaning the kitchen floor, too. He wondered if Eames felt that like broken mug sometimes, shattered into little pieces, making Arthur clean him up and cut himself on all of Eames' sharp edges. His hands fumbled and his throat tightened, but he didn't cry. Arthur never did.

 

+  
The flight from Paris to the States was very long and Arthur hadn't slept a wink, which meant he'd been awake for two days. He'd had to start working right away and by the time he slogged back into his hotel room, stepped out of his shoes and loosened his tie, he didn't even know what time it was in Chicago, let alone Paris. He picked up the phone and dialled anyway, and in the silence that came before the first ring, all his worries and fears suddenly came rushing back. Eames was doing so well, but he hadn't been apart from Arthur yet. He could be sitting on the couch with a beer, watching French TV with the captions on -- or he could be out drinking, brawling, gambling. He could be hurting himself. Fuck. He could be soliciting himself somewhere. Who knew?

Then Eames picked up and Arthur could breathe again. “Morning.”

“Is it?”

“'Fraid so.”

“Sorry.”

“I wasn't asleep anyway.” He could hear a familiar creaking of couch cushions as Eames stretched. “How's Chicago?”

“Lonely. How's Paris?”

“Funny,” said Eames. “It didn't feel like that yesterday, but it's starting to. Perhaps it's a global warming thing.”

Arthur smiled, relaxing onto the bed. “I left my shirt--”

“On my pillow, I saw. Very cute. You think I'm that in love with the smell of you, don't you?”

“And how many times have you smelled it already?”

“Cheeky,” Eames scolded. “What a man does with his boyfriend's shirt in the privacy of their own bedroom is between him and the shirt.”

Arthur's mouth felt dry. They were boyfriends? He hadn't considered it like that before. He'd never really had a term for what he and Eames were, before. It made his heart feel full and strained, and he couldn't identify that emotion.

There didn't seem to be much left to say. “I miss you,” said Arthur.

“Already? You need to get a life, darling. I, on the other hand, don't have or need one, and am therefore allowed to miss you.”

“I'll call you again tomorrow.”

“I'll be right here,” Eames told him.

“I'll be home in two weeks.”

“I know, pet. I shall count the days.”

Arthur was just about to hang up when he heard Eames' faint voice say, “Wait.”

His heart gripped his throat. He snatched the phone back up to his ear.

“What is it?”

“It's ...” Eames seemed to struggle for words for a moment. Finally, a sigh. “I was trying to use the new espresso machine, and all the instructions are in French.”

The tension left Arthur's body in one smooth rush. He settled back down onto the mattress.

“I told you I'd show you how to use it once I got back.”

“I wanted an espresso. I didn't think it would be this difficult.”

“Aren't there diagrams?” Arthur asked.

“Of course there are diagrams. I just wasn't aware I was assembling _the Hubble Space Telescope_.”

In spite of himself, Arthur found himself smiling at the petulance in Eames' voice. “All that money spent on French classes, and you couldn't even learn enough to be able to use a coffeemaker.”

“I am exceedingly talented in many fields, love. Languages are not one of them.”

“Neither are coffee machines, I suppose.”

“Are you enjoying yourself, Arthur? Do my failings make you feel good about yourself?”

“Okay,” Arthur relented. “Go and find the instructions and read them to me.”

“Okay.” There was a silence, presumably as Eames got up with the cordless phone and went into the kitchen. “Okay, I'm looking at them now. They're--”

There was a faint sound and Arthur heard a muffled, “Oh, balls.”

“Did you just say 'oh, balls'?”

“I spilled my tea on the instructions.”

“You're drinking tea?”

“Well, since I couldn't have espresso.” Eames' tone sounded frayed.

“Is anything still legible?”

“Maybe... Do the words _un double mousse système de cappuccino_ mean anything to you?”

“It means 'double foam cappuccino system', does that mean anything to _you?_ ”

“Oh, God.” Eames sighed. Arthur heard riffling paper. “Well, the German side is fine. Thank God we can still read the _German_ side.”

“Actually, that'll do,” said Arthur. “Start reading them to me.”

“Wait, you speak _German_ now too? God, Arthur, who _are_ you?”

It took them far too long to be able to make Eames a cup of espresso, and they kept talking after that, and in the end Arthur only got about three hours of sleep, but he didn't care. He didn't mind at all, and if he stayed up talking to Eames like that every night for the next two weeks he wouldn't mind that, either.

Things had gotten better.

 

+  
And yet.

Sometimes, when Arthur awoke in the middle of the night and felt the reassuring heat of Eames' body pressed against his, all he could think was that Eames deserved somebody better than him.

+  
+  
+

The flight had been delayed.

“Call Saito,” Ariadne half-joked, slumped tiredly across an uncomfortable chair in the terminal. “He'll make them move the plane.”

“I somehow don't think so.” Cobb kept checking his watch, like he thought they were going to be late even though they were sitting right outside the gate, and had been for the past four hours. Arthur and Eames were sitting across from them. The forger had spent the past thirty minutes trying to make himself comfortable leaning against Arthur, but the plastic armrest that separated them hindered him greatly.

“Oh, to hell with this,” he said bitterly at last, and slid to the floor. Arthur watched as Eames scooted between his legs and leaned back against Arthur's chair. “Give me a massage, would you, pet?”

Arthur put down his magazine on Eames' vacated chair and obligingly dug his fingers into the taut muscle of Eames' shoulders. Eames tilted his head back and made a sound that was positively pornographic, causing the woman cradling a baby several seats down to shoot them a glare and then get up in search of another seat. Arthur flicked his gaze up to the ceiling and held it there steadily, trying to think of other things, even while his hands were expertly kneading Eames' shoulders.

“Get a room,” Ariadne said.

“They'll have one in New York, I only booked the one for Arthur,” Cobb interrupted distractedly. “With a queen-sized bed.”

“A queen-sized bed?” Eames echoed, letting his head loll forward. “Is that a joke? Did anyone else just hear Cobb try to make a joke?”

Arthur didn't want to think about the queen-sized bed that awaited them in New York. He bit his lip and dug his hands particularly tightly into either side of Eames' neck, causing the forger to wince. “Ow.”

“Sorry.” Arthur forcibly relaxed. “Why book a queen-sized bed for me beforehand, though?”

“Because I had a feeling we'd be bringing Eames along.”

“Your confidence in me is always appreciated and most touching, Cobb,” Eames said smoothly. “Almost makes me feel bad for nicking your boarding pass.”

“My--?” Cobb's brows furrowed, and he gave himself a quick pat-down. When he didn't find his boarding pass, he fixed Eames in a narrow gaze. Eames smiled and handed it to him.

Arthur knew what he was doing. He was putting on a show for Cobb -- all but singing, _look at how adorably maddening and typical I am; nothing wrong here_. Trying to cover up whatever disaster had gone down when they'd been under together. Arthur sighed inwardly. Cobb had not warned him beforehand that he would be confronting Eames with a trigger, and it made him furious when he thought about it too hard.

“He likes to push himself,” he'd told Eames, during the drive to the airport. “He thinks that makes it okay for him to push everyone else. You don't have to do this.”

“Arthur,” Eames had said, in a flat voice. “I'm going to New York.”

Presently Eames ran a hand down Arthur's shin. Arthur nearly bit his tongue. “That feels very good, pet.”

“Good,” Arthur said. Eames' broad shoulders were so warm between his knees. Arthur had to force his mind away from that. He stared determinedly out the window, at the runway, where planes taxied lazily back and forth.

“This is ridiculous.” Cobb sighed. “I'm going to the bathroom. Watch my hand luggage.”

“I'd better go, too,” said Arthur, once Cobb had disappeared. He let his hands drop away from Eames' shoulders. Eames sighed, but got back into his chair, and Arthur hurried away.

This would be his first and possibly only chance to speak to Cobb alone. When he reached the bathroom he found Cobb washing his hands, and pushed the door shut behind him. Arthur had never been one to beat around the bush.

“I told you he wasn't ready for this.”

“He thinks he is,” said Cobb, looking at Arthur over his shoulder in the mirror. Arthur snorted.

“And we all know Eames makes the best judgement calls about himself.” There was a pause. Arthur flushed angrily and said, “That was out of line. But you know what I mean.”

“I know. And don't you think he's had enough of people deciding things for him?”

While Arthur fumbled for a response to that, Cobb turned around to face him and grabbed a paper towel to wipe his hands with.

“Look, I was in his dream. He's got it under control now.”

“You scared the hell out of him!”

“But he didn't lose it,” said Cobb patiently. “He didn't let any projections in.”

“His nightmares are _worse_ now, Cobb, not better. He might be able to control his dreams now but he's just shoving everything down further, where we won't see it. He still hasn't dealt with what happened to him. He's not okay. You haven't been with him for the past nine months -- I have.”

Cobb sighed. “I know. But this job -- it's important, Arthur. We can't do it without him, and he wants to do it.”

“What is it?” Arthur asked, realizing that he still didn't know the details. He'd been prepared to turn Cobb down if Eames wasn't up to scratch. Cobb looked aside, and that was Arthur's first indication that something was off.

“The client is a district attorney whose daughter was raped and killed last year. There was a man they charged with her murder, who was attached to a string of other killings, he was the boyfriend of one of the girls, but he got off on a technicality. Basically, our job is--”

He was cut off. Arthur had shoved him with all his strength into the counter. Cobb gripped the edge at his back and didn't straighten up.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me, Cobb?” Arthur shouted. His voice rang loudly in the small space. “You want Eames to seduce a rapist!”

“No, not exactly,” said Cobb, but he hadn't moved away from the counter, and he wasn't looking Arthur in the eyes. “It should have been a simple run, but the extractor who went in found out that the mark has some rudimentary form of subcon security. He has a history of bipolar disorder that may or may not account for that. The idea is just to provide a distraction so that we can extract the information we need. Then we wash our hands clean of it and let the DA do what he needs to do.”

“So we're murderers now,” said Arthur, breathing hard.

“This is a chance for us to do some actual good, Arthur. If the mark is the murderer, he's going to do this again until someone stops him. It doesn't have to be us directly.”

“No. We only facilitate it.” Arthur stepped closer, crowding his space. “You're not _thinking_ , Cobb. This isn't a job for us. You're the only one of us who has kids, you're looking at this with a father's perspective. Not an extractor's. And not as our boss.”

Cobb narrowed his eyes. “You're telling me that if you had the chance to destroy one of the men who paid to go under with Eames--”

“Don't you dare.” Arthur's tone was flat and icy. “You know that if I could, I would put a bullet in every single one of them. I'm a point. My job is to protect my team. Not to let you expose them to unnecessary risks by agreeing to do something that doesn't even involve us.”

“We're getting paid for it.” Cobb turned away, finally, balled up the paper towel in his hand and threw it aggressively into the trash on his way out. “That makes us involved.”

Arthur leaned against the counter and stayed in the bathroom. It was a few minutes before he could take the frayed edge off of his breathing.

 

+  
When Eames had nightmares, he didn't thrash around in the sheets. He didn't do anything clichéd like jolt awake in a cold sweat or scream or talk in his sleep. He suffered them with a quietness that was painful to Arthur, who couldn't always tell when a nightmare had struck, and therefore could not subsequently save him. But if he was awake, he knew. He knew by the way Eames' breathing grew faster, and the way his fingers twitched against the mattress, like a dog when it dreamt it was running. Arthur wondered what he was running away from.

Likewise, when Arthur dreamt, he was silent. And he was so glad for that.

He wasn't one to dream very often. They had started out small and fleeting and infrequent, ships in the night. But it seemed like the more Arthur experienced of Eames' post-traumatic tics and behaviours, the worse and more frequent the dreams became.

Dreams of Eames languidly wrapping those soft lips around Arthur's cock devolved gradually into dreams of him fucking Eames' mouth, making him choke. He dreamt about fucking Eames and making him hurt. And every time, he woke up achingly, obscenely hard.

Arthur's subconscious had always been an unfriendly place; it was a frequent complaint of his teammates. But he'd never been sickened by his own dreams. Originally he'd have just stayed flat on his stomach and willed his erection away, but it was so bad now that he had to slip away to the bathroom in the dark, bite his lip to keep from making a sound and jerk himself off quickly. He prayed that Eames, feigning sleep in the bedroom, wouldn't notice or hear.

He didn't understand. He was driving himself insane trying to claw these thoughts out of his head. Eames thought that Arthur didn't want to touch him, but the truth was that Arthur wanted _too badly_ to touch him. He couldn't do it. He was so terrified that he would do something to hurt Eames or scare him off for good. He didn't even trust himself. The night he dreamt about _someone else_ fucking Eames raw, he threw up in the toilet and felt sickeningly dizzy with lust.

Rationally, he thought perhaps it was because he didn't know what was in Eames' broken dreamscape, was the only one not to know, and in its own black, twisted way his brain was trying to fill in the gaps. Irrationally, he felt like the worst fucking scum on the planet.

And so. He lay awake at night next to Eames, who was equally awake, and they both faked sleep, and when Eames tried to cover up his bad dreams like Arthur hadn't just woken him up from one, because maybe he was afraid Arthur would leave him if he knew the content of those dreams, Arthur just laughed hollowly to himself. If Eames only knew.

They were fucked up. So hopelessly fucked up. And Arthur didn't know anymore if things would get better than this.

+  
+  
+

The flight -- once they finally boarded and took off -- was uneventful. It was a direct flight from Paris to JFK and it took almost seven hours exactly, and Arthur and Eames were the only ones who didn't sleep on the plane. On his last trip to the lavatory, Eames studied himself in the mirror and saw how glassy and bloodshot his eyes were. He frowned, wishing for the eyedrops that were stowed in his suitcase. At least Arthur, sitting across the aisle from him, hadn't been hassling him to try and get some sleep, like he normally did at home. He'd surely noticed the exhaustion in Eames' features by now, but perhaps understood that Eames could never have allowed himself to enter such a vulnerable state as sleep when surrounded by so many strangers.

“Really pathetic, my friend,” he told his reflection jauntily, and returned to his seat just before the fasten seatbelts sign lit up and the plane nosed into a descent.

Once on the ground, they took two cabs between them into the heart of Manhattan, and then it was a short stop at the hotel to drop off their sparse luggage and freshen up before they had to cab it back downtown to meet with the client, at Cobb's insistence. They were already late, he reminded them.

Arthur seemed peculiarly stone-faced on the ride to the address they'd been given. More stone-faced than usual, anyway.

“Is everything alright?” Eames asked him, not expecting a response. Sure enough, Arthur simply frowned at the window.

After a pause, though, he said in a clipped way, “I don't like this job. It's not our style.”

Eames waited for it. It was nearly four minutes before it came:

“We could walk away from this.”

“Except that we can't,” said Eames patiently, covering Arthur's hand with his own. Arthur twitched.

“We're made men after the Fischer job. We don't need this money, and we don't need to get ourselves involved in this.”

Eames said nothing. If he didn't say anything, he couldn't give Arthur opportunity to start fretting and mothering him. Arthur took his hand away and glared at Manhattan out the window, as though he wished fiery death upon the entire population of New York.

He'd been like a caged animal since Cobb had left their apartment in Paris, pacing and frowning and hardly sleeping. He barely said a word to Eames about it, but Eames knew. Arthur was worried about him.

And it pissed him off more than anything. Cobb had given him the all-clear. He was going back to work. Life was resuming some semblance of normality. And Arthur still thought he was supposed to be Eames' baby-sitter.

This mark did not scare Eames. On the contrary, Eames hadn't felt so confident about returning to dreaming in over a year. He didn't care what his role was because one crucial element remained that he held to him like a light-bearing torch: now he was in control. If he had to seduce one more man -- so be it. This time he would be serving his own ends. It gave him a vicious pleasure to think about. He'd reclaimed reality as his own: it was finally time to start really taking back the dream world, bit by bit. Eames was determined to reclaim everything that had been taken away from him. This would be as good a start as any.

 

+  
He was confident until he actually stepped into their designated workspace; that was the moment that everything started sliding apart.

Cobb and Ariadne's cab had gotten to the building first, but they'd waited, so that the four of them could enter together. It was a dilapidated-looking apartment building and Eames' first thought was that nobody could possibly live in there, but it smelled enough like cat piss that somebody might. Either way, it was certainly the type of place one would go if they wanted to escape notice. Nobody outside would look twice at this building, and nobody inside would care.

Inside was a tiny, narrow flight of stairs with one or two doors on each floor. When they reached the top floor, Cobb pulled out a key and opened the single door to reveal a surprisingly polished-looking studio apartment. The space was wide and open, with light barely managing to filter through the cracked and grimy windows but giving the place a cheery air nonetheless. It was sparsely furnished with various chairs and a couple couches and tables, most of it covered with white sheets.

There were three men already in the apartment: two seated in chairs opposite each other and talking in low voices. The third was lying across a covered couch, hooked up to various IVs and catheters, for all intents and purposes dead to the world.

Eames felt a cold, coiling sensation in the base of his stomach. There was something too familiar about the set-up, that was all.

The other two men stood up, the older of them looking over the team appraisingly.

“Mr. Cobb, I presume,” he said. “McAvoy.”

Cobb moved forward and shook his hand. “My team,” he said, nodding toward the three of them. “This is Arthur, Eames, and Ariadne.”

“A pleasure to meet you all. Though I wonder, Mr. Cobb, if you don't waste our time by bringing a child with you to do this job.”

He was looking at Ariadne, who shifted self-consciously. Eames could feel Arthur stiffening defensively at his side.

“I assure you,” said Cobb, before Arthur could say anything. His tone hadn't changed. “Ariadne is more than capable of doing this job. Don't be fooled by her youth. She's one of the most talented architects in the field and she's every bit as competent as my fellow colleagues and I.”

“Sometimes more so,” Eames chipped in helpfully. Arthur stepped on his foot, surreptitiously. McAvoy's expression hadn't changed.

“It's a delicate job,” he said.

“We respect that. We'll handle it delicately.”

McAvoy seemed to accept that, because he nodded and didn't say anything more on the subject. That was to set the tone for the rest of their dealings with him.

“JJ can fill you in on the details,” he said dismissively. “I really need to be leaving now.”

He brushed past them. Eames felt a distinct dislike. Ariadne was blushing -- whether at McAvoy's words or Cobb's support, he didn't know.

“Thanks,” she said to Cobb.

He shrugged it aside, and gestured to the remaining man. “This is JJ. He's the extractor who got us this job.”

“Gentlemen -- and, of course, lady.” The man stepped forward, smiling. Eames was just in time to catch his head from snapping round. Instead, he looked over their colleague swiftly, and as inconspicuously as possible.

_Surely not._

“Your reputations precede you,” he went on, shaking Cobb's hand and then Arthur's. “I'm looking forward to working with you.”

Eames nearly recoiled when he found JJ standing in front of him, still smiling blithely. He was tall, and nearly as broad-shouldered as Cobb. With a great effort, Eames extended his hand and let the man shake it. His hands were big, the fingers thick and blunt. His eyes were brown and he was surprisingly attractive.

He released Eames' hand. Eames felt dizzy. His palm tingled and he looked down at his hand faintly.

Then he'd breezed on past to Ariadne, grinning. “Of course, I haven't heard much about you. But I anticipate great things.”

She laughed nervously, the flattery not lost on her. Eames continued to stare. Where there had been a cold sensation in his stomach there was now a hot nausea. He was slightly older. The features were slightly off. But there was no mistaking that voice. That smooth fucking _purr_ of a voice.

_Hello, Charlie._

The only thing that kept him from fleeing the room right then and there was that his muscles had decided to lock up unexpectedly.

“I suppose I'd better take you under, anyway,” JJ said, turning away and clapping his hands together, “let you get a feel for what you're dealing with.” He was approaching the sleeping man. “Mr. McAvoy wants this dealt with as quickly as possible, but I doubt anyone will be looking for him, anyway. We left a suitable cover-up. Bags packed and the like.”

“You kidnapped the mark?” said Arthur.

“We had the resources. There didn't seem to be a cleaner way to do it. We can't let him get away until we've sorted this out.”

Arthur frowned. “And if he's innocent?”

JJ shrugged. “Then we let him go with virtually no memory of any of this, no harm done. It's almost certain he's guilty, though.”

Already he was pulling out a PASIV device from under a dusty covered chair. Cobb and Arthur exchanged a glance that Eames couldn't decipher; the extractor shrugged his shoulders and Arthur's expression became neutral again. Nobody else cared that this mark was being held hostage by drugs, his mind to be invaded at will.

Why should they? He was most likely a rapist and a murderer. Why should they care, except that Eames had been held the same way?

He didn't realize he was still rooted to the spot until JJ was offering him an IV line. The others had already pulled up chairs and there was a line now attached to the slumbering mark's wrist.

“I think I'll enjoy working with you,” the man said. He was still smiling. “I've heard good things.”

Eames experienced a wild impulse to reach for a gun and shoot himself before this dream could get out of hand. He actually might have, too, had a gun been readily available. His hand slid almost imperceptibly into his pocket and he thumbed the poker chip, and he realized JJ was waiting for a response -- his teammates were waiting for him -- and suddenly the ability to think straight returned to him.

He smiled, waving the IV away. “'Fraid you'll have to wait for another day, mate. I'll just be coordinating this run. Watching the timer and the settings.”

Ariadne was subtle enough to glance in his direction; both Cobb and Arthur turned to face him.

“Are you sure you don't want to join us?” Cobb asked carefully after a second's uncomfortable silence. Eames heard what he wasn't saying: _Can you do this, or not?_

He shrugged, schooling his expression into something blank. “If you really feel you need me, I'll go down with you, but I don't see that I'll be needed just yet.” Translation: _I'll go if you make me, but I'd rather not, thanks._

“Alright.” Cobb's expression was unreadable, and so was Arthur's, but the latter's stare was very intense. “Put seven minutes on the clock, then.”

Eames set up the PASIV for them and, when they were ready, he depressed the trigger button. When the room lapsed into silence he could hear his own heartbeat. He got up and approached JJ. Waved a hand in front of his face a couple times.

Then he fucking ran for it.

 

+  
All of Eames' little breakdowns were like quiet implosions. A collapsing in on himself. Small and contained.

He didn't know how to deal with what he was feeling now. He wanted to start running and never stop. He wanted to scream. All his blood was burning in him and something huge and explosive was trying to claw its way out of his chest. He bit his sleeve to keep from shouting, and ended up laughing like a maniac instead, helplessly. Then, suddenly furious, he whirled round and slammed his hand against the brick wall, as hard as he could, so that it stung all the way up to his shoulder. He kicked over a trash can for good measure, then kicked it again, and again, and again.

Finally, the wild energy dissipating from him, he sank down the wall to a crouching position and curled up with his face in his arms. He was out of breath.

He checked his watch. Four minutes had passed. He hadn't gone far, only to the little alley between their building and its neighbour. He needed fresh air. It was a tall order in this neighbourhood, but he did feel better. Marginally.

He rallied his thoughts. He had three minutes before he either had to go in there or hail a taxi and go back to the hotel. Or back to the airport. Back to Paris. Back to Mombasa. _Somewhere._ Somewhere not here.

_Think._

He considered the things that he knew already.

Firstly. JJ and the man who haunted his dreams, the man in the white suit, were almost certainly one and the same. He was a forger, albeit an inept one. He was the man who'd-- Eames squeezed his eyes shut until it hurt and dragged his hands up and down his face, taking deep breaths.

The alternative was that his mind had noticed a couple similarities and instantly made a connection that wasn't there, like déja vu, though he somehow didn't think that was the case.

Secondly. Arthur and Cobb could never know. That meant, by extension, that neither could Ariadne, because of course she would tell them. With the best intentions, most likely, but if that were to happen, well -- Eames would never be allowed near the world of extracting again. Arthur would _never_ stop seeing him as a victim that needed to be sheltered from the world.

God _damnit_. He'd told them he could do this.

Thirdly. Thirdly. Fuck.

Right. Thirdly. Ariadne hadn't recognized the man. Nor, he suspected, would she. The man in the white suit only pounced when Eames was alone. She'd started leaving him alone, watching from the sidelines in their shared dreams for a few minutes at a time, just to see if he could keep the man out or, if he did show up, reclaim control of the dream without her help. The recent ordeal had been his only success so far. The main thing was that she'd never gotten close to the man to know his voice or distinguish his features from a crowd even if he weren't a disguise. Eames was glad for that.

All these things he knew. What was he supposed to do now?

He knew that, too. He resigned himself to it. But he had a fourth thought:

It was possible that JJ didn't know him. After all, Eames had been locked up in a room where no clients were supposed to see him. He was never allowed to show his real face in front of them. They came there for a fantasy, not for anything real. It might be that JJ, in fact, had no idea who he was. There had been no recognition in his face when they'd met.

Eames clung to that hope.

And he returned to his fifth thought, the only conclusion he could possibly draw from this grim scenario: He would have to finish the job. Just finish it, and get the hell away.

He got up, brushed off his clothing and went back inside.

He'd only been gone for six minutes out of the seven, but they were waking up anyway: Ariadne with a startle, blinking; Arthur making the transition seamlessly, half opening his eyes. As soon as he was awake, Cobb was tugging the line out of his arm and rounding on JJ.

“Is this a joke?” he said incredulously. “That's the security you couldn't deal with?”

Pursing his lips, JJ said, “They aren't militarized, but they're still dangerous.”

“We gave them the run-around for an hour before they caught up.” Cobb was frowning, obviously displeased. “Arthur and I could probably have done this job ourselves.”

“Why don't we?” said Arthur, and privately, Eames thought, _Please do._

“No. We could do it, but it'll go faster if we're able to just stick to the plan. It won't be as hard as I thought, either way, at least. Eames, a word.”

Eames was on the floor, quietly busying himself reeling in the lines, discarding the used needles and packing up the PASIV. He stopped.

“I'll join you,” said Arthur quickly.

“No, I want to talk to him alone. Eames.”

Eames got up with the resignation of a man about to face a firing squad. Arthur looked as though he was about to jump in again; Ariadne just gave him a helpless sort of _good luck_ shrug. JJ wasn't even watching.

He followed Cobb out the door, and all the way down the stairs till they stepped outside into the side alley where Eames had just been sitting. Cobb frowned at the dented, tipped-over trash can, but must have decided to chalk it up to a rough neighbourhood, because he didn't comment.

“Look,” he said, and Eames hunched his shoulders, bracing for some form of dressing-down or twisted pep-talk. But Cobb seemed uncertain how to go on for a minute.

Eames broke the silence. “I just choked. It won't happen again.”

Cobb studied him. “Eames,” he said finally. He took a slow breath through his nose and looked down. “I don't want to give you the wrong impression.”

“What impression's that?”

“You're one of my oldest friends,” said Cobb. “I don't want you to think that this job is more important to me than you.”

Eames was astounded. Until now he would never have thought Cobb capable of stringing together those words in that order. Cobb turned slightly, squinted sidelong at him. He was obviously uncomfortable having this heart-to-heart.

“I brought you along because I honestly thought you could do this. But if you don't think you can -- even if you have any doubts -- just tell me. I can't and I won't make you do this. If you want to stop, say so. We can try again later, with a different job. I won't fire you from the team just because you have trouble with this one. Just so you understand.”

Eames digested all of this slowly. He really didn't think Cobb was being dishonest. In fact, Cobb was being honest, which must have been unfamiliar ground for him. Eames wasn't altogether sure what to make of it. In the end, he decided to go for honesty, too: that special brand of roundabout honesty he was so good at.

“Cobb,” he said, looking his employer in the eye. “You ought to know about me that I will do anything -- anything -- to get one more rapist shit off the streets. You know,” he said. “Just so that we understand each other.”

The corner of Cobb's lip quirked up slightly. He clapped Eames on the back bracingly, maybe to restore some of the manliness to this conversation, and went back inside.

Eames, however, chose to pull out a cigarette and wait outside until Arthur appeared. Very manly indeed.

 

+  
They picked up take-away for supper. There was a brief squabble over which ethnicity of food to order and it was very domestic and sweet because Arthur was so adorable when he let his forehead get all scrunched up with annoyance, and they both ended up settling on Chinese food. Once they were actually back at their hotel room, sitting in uncomfortable square armchairs on either side of a table that was probably meant to be decorative, Eames found that he actually wasn't hungry at all.

They lapsed naturally into silence and both of them pushed food around with their forks for awhile. They were both fully capable of handling chopsticks, but it seemed unnecessary to do so when they were in New York City. Arthur was frowning into his bowl of lo mein, chin propped pensively on one hand.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Eames offered, after a long silence.

Arthur shook his head and sighed, blinking like he was waking up from a dream. “I hate this city.”

“Do you?” said Eames, surprised.

“It's so ... crowded and polluted and busy all the time.”

“Has anybody ever given you a real tour?” Eames asked. “I don't mean Empire State and the Statue of Liberty, I mean has anybody ever taken you to Greenwich Village or Magnolia Bakery or to a show on Broadway?”

Arthur's frown returned and he shook his head again.

“Then give New York a chance. You're so addicted to your job, Arthur. You experience cities out of airport terminals and dirty warehouses and cheap hotels. Live a little.”

“Right.” Arthur looked back down at his food.

They didn't speak again for about ten minutes. Arthur ate a little. Then he put down his fork.

“Did Cobb fire you when he pulled you aside today?”

“No,” said Eames. And, suddenly belligerant: “Why would he?”

Arthur looked at him narrowly. “You couldn't even go under.”

“I _could_ have. I chose not to.”

“Right,” said Arthur, with mild scepticism.

“I choked a little. It was a one-off,” said Eames.

There was a loaded silence during which neither of them broke eye contact. It was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Room service,” Arthur mumbled, extricating himself from the armchair. “I ordered wine.”

There was no romance to the gesture when Eames knew full well that Arthur was only hoping it might help get him to sleep. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. He resolved not to drink any.

He filched Arthur's wallet when the point man brushed past him, because it was easy and he was feeling spontaneous, wanting to do something to rattle Arthur's cage a little. Piss him off, even. Arthur opened the door and went to pay and had to search his pockets, finally turning to face a smiling Eames, who was waving Arthur's money in the air. Arthur strode over and snatched a few crumpled bills without saying anything, his jaw set firmly. He paid while Eames rifled through his various ID cards.

Just as the door shut Eames found one that made him whoop with laughter. “Arthur Cobb! That's your name when you're in the States?”

Arthur ground his teeth visibly and went to snatch the card, but Eames pulled it away.

“Did you two turn around and get married while I was in Mombasa? Is that what you did? Because I think you could do better, Arthur, I don't think he's your type--”

“Give it to me,” said Arthur, in his flat, ice-cold, serious-point-man voice. A hot flush had risen in his cheeks.

“Alright, you can have it,” said Eames, holding up the card carelessly. He was still grinning. “It's not as though I'll forget or stop tormenting you till the end of time for this. Arthur _Cobb!_ What in God's name made you choose that?”

Arthur was breathing harder and Eames noticed something funny. It wasn't just that he was making Arthur angry. He was making Arthur -- _embarrassed_. Arthur grabbed back his wallet and started to stuff the card back inside, his hand trembling slightly like it would rather be hitting Eames in the face.

“It's my real name, okay?” he said in a low voice. “It's the closest thing I've got to one, anyway. I changed it.”

“But why on earth--?”

“I changed it because Cobb and Mal took me in when I was sixteen and I didn't want to keep my old name anymore. So. Cobb. There you go. It's hilarious, I know.”

Eames soaked in this new piece of information with interest. He sat back in his chair and considered.

“You know,” he mused thoughtfully, when it appeared that Arthur was ready to move on and spare him the recriminations, “we've known each other for years now. We've been sharing a living space for nearly a year and you've seen me at my utter worst, and yet I feel I still don't know the first thing about you.”

Arthur was settling himself back into his chair. His lips thinned. “Do you need to?”

Eames considered again and shook his head. “No. Keep your secrets if you'd like. At least one of us ought to have some.”

Arthur looked relieved -- until Eames went on, “You're quite close to Cobb, aren't you?”

“He's like a brother to me,” said Arthur tersely, refusing to look up. “I owe a lot to him.”

“You'd do about anything for him, wouldn't you?”

“About anything, yes.”

Arthur squinted up at him guardedly. Eames said, “Did he tell you not to forewarn me that he was going to put me in a dream designed to trigger me, or did you decide that on your own?”

Arthur's face became shuttered. “Eames.”

“Just for curiosity's sake.”

“I didn't know ...”

“Ariadne told me. She didn't know he was setting me up, but she at least told me.”

“Right.” Arthur scrunched up his napkin and threw it into his bowl of lo mein, and glared at him. “She told me something, too, a little while ago. She said all your lunch dates were shared dreaming sessions to help you get back on track.”

“I'm sorry, pet, this annoys you somehow ...?”

“Let me ask you something,” Arthur said in a hard tone. “And I want you to be honest with me, Eames. No skipping around the question. Don't try to bullshit me. _Honest_.”

Eames leaned forward. “Fire away.”

“When you backed out today. Was it because you didn't want to go under with me?”

Eames had frozen up until the very end of that sentence. Every muscle loosened and he sat back, both eyebrows raised, hiding his relief.

“You're absurd,” he said curtly. “Absurd and self-centered.”

“You'll share dreams with Ariadne every week. You'll do it with Cobb just because he asks. But not me.”

“You never asked,” Eames pointed out.

“I just,” said Arthur, with mounting frustration. “I don't understand why you went to her. You know what, McAvoy's right. She's practically a kid and this is fucked-up stuff we're getting into. She hasn't even been doing this for that long. And you asked her for help.” If Eames didn't know better, he'd start to swear that Arthur sounded hurt. He shifted his weight uncomfortably. Arthur looked down again and said, “You asked her, and not me.”

“Maybe,” said Eames quietly, “I don't care what she thinks of me.” He tilted his head. “You are jealous, aren't you? You actually are. And she isn't even the one I trust enough to share a bed with every night. Although maybe,” he added lewdly, “she should've been from the start.”

He knew by the way Arthur's gaze snapped to the floor and his expression clouded over that his comment had found its mark. “That's not what we're talking about.”

“Alright. Fine. My backing out today had nothing to do with you, you petty thing. Are you satisfied?”

“Somehow, no.” Arthur frowned. Now Eames knew he was hurt. He ducked his head. “I just wish you didn't feel like you have to hide things from me.”

“You're the one person I don't hide anything from. Arthur--” He was reaching across the table and Arthur leaned into his touch, let Eames cradle his face in one hand before he seemed to know what he was doing. His eyelids fluttered and Eames stroked a thumb over his cheek, holding him there. “We don't talk about this, do we?”

“No,” Arthur whispered. “Would it help?”

“No.”

Arthur looked relieved. Eames shut his eyes, pulled his hand away.

“You still have nightmares,” Arthur said. Eames laughed bitterly.

“There'll always be nightmares.”

Arthur looked bleakly down at their food, which was turning cold and congealing. “You should eat.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“I don't think you can do this job.”

It was an unexpected slap in the face.

Eames let the words hang in the air between them for a moment. He considered them. Then he shoved his armchair away from the table and got up.

“Fuck you, darling,” he said lightly, and disappeared into the bathroom. It was the last word they exchanged that evening.

 

+  
Eames woke up.

It was momentarily disorienting. He shoved at the sheets in alarm.

“Stop it. You're doing it again,” Arthur complained softly in the dark. Eames felt Arthur's hands press his arm down, reassuringly warm. He stilled and relaxed. “Crawling all over me, you're worse than a cat,” Arthur chided him gently.

Eames turned his head so that he could feel Arthur's breath tickling his nose, and let himself be comforted. He couldn't remember what he'd been dreaming about and that in itself was scary. Eames was trained to remember every detail. He never forgot a dream. His agitation returned. He pulled away from Arthur and searched for his totem, fumbling in the dark. On the other side of the bed, Arthur switched a lamp on and Eames found the poker chip on the bedside table. He grabbed it and ran his thumb over it, still not entirely convinced he wasn't dreaming. It could be his own dream. He gulped for breath.

“Here.” Arthur was suddenly at his side, pressing something into his hand. The die.

Eames rolled it on the surface of the table. Six up. Reality.

“Thanks.”

Arthur retrieved the die and returned to his own side of the bed. He switched off the lamp. “Come here.”

Eames moved closer and Arthur wrapped a loose arm around him. He didn't seem angry after their exchange. All those things that happened during the day were forgotten in the face of Eames' night terrors. Eames inhaled the smell of him and wanted to drown in it.

“Do you want anything?” Arthur asked him.

Eames couldn't say why all of his insides suddenly seemed to be tying themselves in knots.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. He shut his eyes tightly. “I want you to fuck me.”

Arthur didn't say anything right away. He started to slide his arm away. Eames grabbed him by the wrist.

“Please,” he said.

“We've been over this,” said Arthur quietly. “I'm not going to.”

He tried to move back to his side of the bed. Eames gripped his wrist tighter and pulled him closer.

“You have to want this too,” he said. His eyes were starting to adjust to the dark. Arthur was so close that their lips were almost brushing. Eames leaned in and let his lips just graze Arthur's ear as he growled softly, “Tell me it isn't driving you mental, too, Arthur, because I know it is. I _know_.”

He heard Arthur swallow. His own stomach was churning.

“Please,” Eames whispered, starting to push Arthur onto his back so that he could move over him. “Don't feel guilty, Arthur. We're two adults in our right minds. I'm asking you to fuck me.” His mouth was so dry. Something was wrong. “Don't make me beg.”

“Eames. Get off me.”

But he wasn't fighting back. Eames slid a knee over Arthur's leg and settled it between his thighs.

“I need this.”

“I don't. I want you to get off me,” said Arthur steadily.

“No you _don't_ ,” Eames breathed against his lips. “You want this, Arthur, you've wanted it for a very long time. I want to feel you inside me, I want you to fuck me until I pass out. That's all I want.”

Arthur jerked away from him without warning. He managed to slip out of Eames' hold and retreat to his own side of the bed.

“You have to stop,” he said, and the low quaver in his voice told Eames that he was scared. Arthur, scared.

Good. That made two of them.

He felt possessed -- he didn't know what was compelling him to crawl across the bed and reach out to lay a hand on Arthur like he'd die if they weren't touching. The heat of Arthur's body sent sparks through the nerve endings in his fingertips. He had Arthur crowded up against the edge of the bed now and he could feel Arthur shiver wherever Eames touched him; he could hear Arthur's breathing coming fast.

“I want you.” He was gripping Arthur's arm tight enough to bruise it. He wanted to stop; he wanted this never to end. “I want you. So fucking bad, Arthur, it hurts--”

“Eames, stop, please--”

Arthur's breath hitched sharply as Eames began to settle between his legs again and his very hard, very obvious erection brushed Eames' thigh.

Eames' lips curled into a sad smile.

“Well.”

“Get off,” Arthur gritted out. He raised an arm to try and shove Eames away but Eames caught his hand easily and pinned it to the bed; then leaned down and pressed his lips to Arthur's. They were kissing now -- Arthur was trying to stay still and quiet but he made a startled sound when Eames bit his lower lip, trying to entice him into it. Eames pressed his thigh down and ground it steadily over Arthur's groin, and Arthur's hips twitched upward of their own accord. Eames was simultaneously thrilled and terrified by the response Arthur's body was having to him.

“Stop,” Arthur repeated weakly, trying to turn away, repulsed.

“You want this, Arthur. You want me. Look at yourself.”

At these words, something in Arthur seemed to steel itself. Eames shifted his weight and Arthur seized the opportunity to wrest free, throw him over and straddle him in the same fluid motion. He moved like chain lightning; Eames didn't know what had hit him.

“This is what you want, Eames?” Arthur hissed, reaching a hand between Eames' legs to grip him through his boxers. “Really?”

Eames remembered two things distinctly about the second or two that followed:

The brightness of Arthur's eyes, so close in the dark, and how they widened fractionally when he touched Eames and found no erection there, no hardness, no trace of arousal at all. And then the cracking sound of Eames' fist connecting with Arthur's face.

Then he was in the corner.

There was nothing in between to connect the two things, he was simply facing the corner all of a sudden. He was on his knees, each knee touching a wall, his head bowed like a child in time-out.

He heard rustling sounds behind him, the bedsheets as Arthur reorganized. And Arthur's voice:

“Shit.”

A long pause, and an even quieter, “Shit.”

Mattress springs creaked. Arthur seemed to be at a loss.

He said, “Shit.” And: “I'm so sorry. Eames. I'm so sorry.”

Eames stayed in the corner with his eyes shut, retreating on himself.

“Eames.”

He heard Arthur leave the bed and then silence.

“Fuck,” he said. “Please say something.”

If he didn't move he could almost fall right through the wall.

“I don't know what just happened. I'm sorry. _Eames_ ...”

Eames heard all these things without really hearing them; he was already gone. Arthur could have grabbed and shaken him and probably even thrown him down and fucked him then and there on the floor if he really wanted to and Eames wouldn't care because he would just be gone.

Arthur paced around him, like a yo-yo, moving as close as he dared and then withdrawing, no way of knowing if Eames' eyes were open or if he was even still breathing.

Finally he left. The tiny, frail part of Eames' mind that was still there accepted that he would be back, but most of Eames was just gone away because that was the only thing that could make his body continue to breathe and let his fractured mind survive this scene intact.

+  
+  
+

It should have been physically impossible, but Eames knew it wasn't, because he was doing it. If anyone had bothered asking his opinion before now (why would anyone _ever_ ask his opinion?) whether he thought he could deep-throat the man in the white suit he'd have said no. But nobody ever asked him anyway and people continued to surprise him with the situations they dreamed up for him.

That it was _Charlie's_ blond hair the man was gripping viciously tight and _Charlie's_ eyes streaming water was semantics, because it was still Eames' throat he was fucking without respite and it was Eames who could scarcely breathe. Eames who was kneeling on the floor of the casino and whose projections were milling about or watching with open disgust because they were long past the point of trying to defend his subconscious anymore. Even he'd given up on himself.

The man grunted and came in long, hot spurts and Eames had to swallow all of it. And then -- finally -- _finally_ \-- he was drawing away, zipping up his pants, and leaving Eames gasping noisily for breath and dry heaving, not daring to vomit because if he did he'd have to eat it off the floor. His projections lost interest and wandered away.

When he'd managed to start breathing normally again -- it hurt, everything hurt -- he began to numbly wipe the saliva from his chin and the come from the corners of his mouth, and the tears from his cheeks. They were just part of the gag reflex, but Eames didn't like the man seeing them anyway.

“Good, Charlie.” That hateful broad hand was sweeping down the side of his face, cupping his chin. “That was good.”

Eames concentrated on breathing and tried to tell himself that this was happening to somebody else. It was never successful.

“I like to reward good things.” He used both hands to tilt Eames' face up toward him. “Would you like me to take you away from here? You'd like to go someplace else, wouldn't you?”

Eames' heart constricted and he nodded pleadingly. _Yes, yes._ He wanted to leave this hotel. He wanted that more than anything. But he wasn't allowed to speak. That was something the man had impressed upon him the first time he'd revisited Eames. That was the rule.

Not, apparently, this time.

“Say it,” the man said. “I want to hear you say it.”

Oh. It was cruel. There was no possible way Eames could coax his bruised and swollen throat into forming words, no physical way.

“Say it,” the man urged him. “Do you want it?”

“Yes,” he rasped. He had to force his throat to work. It hurt terribly.

The man waited.

“Please.” Eames' voice cracked.

The man stroked a hand soothingly through his hair. “Close your eyes,” he said. Eames did. “Open your mouth.”

He did that too. He saw no alternative.

“Good, Charlie.”

Then the gun slotted itself inside his mouth and went off.

 

+  
He should have woken up but he didn't. He never did, no matter how many times he died in the dreams. He'd given up trying to keep track of them. Maybe it was like riding an elevator, down each level till he got to the third and then back up again. Or maybe all of it was limbo, and he was just waking up over and over again in the exact same dream.

The difference this time was that he wasn't in his own dream anymore.

He'd never seen _this_ hotel room before. It was big enough to be someone's small apartment and two of the walls had big windows wrapping around them, almost floor-to-ceiling, facing a beach and a blue ocean. The room was full of light. He could hear the waves and practically smell the salt water from here.

He feasted upon the vision. It was simple. It didn't even have doors, not even for the attached bathroom. But it was new.

And his throat hurt a little less. That was nice.

“You like it, don't you?” his companion said. Eames nodded, and the man patiently let him explore the whole room with childlike curiosity before shoving him down on the bed.

 

+  
After the fourth week or so the novelty of a new setting had long worn off and by the eighth, he hated that room more than any of the ones back at his own dreamscape. It was a cage. Now and then the man disappeared and Eames couldn't tell if that was worse or better.

Sometime around the twelfth week he managed to get his hands on the man's gun and he pushed it, shaking, into his stomach, but he hesitated too long, and just then the man came awake and gently took the weapon from his hands and pulled him down and kissed him on the forehead like Eames meant something to him. Even though he meant nothing, nothing at all.

 

+  
After maybe sixteen weeks, while the man was in the bathroom, briefly, Eames tried to drop his disguise. Just for a second. He hated Charlie's skin. _Disgusting._

He couldn't do it.

He didn't know what was happening to him. He was breaking like an old toy. He didn't even know who he was anymore.

The cramps in his abdomen were constant, as was the blood that seeped from his rectum.

 

+  
There was no way for him to keep track of the days anymore. He might have been down there six months or twelve, though it was probably much closer to the former. It was hard to tell because he spent so little time sleeping, except when the man was gone, and because he'd started noticing a pattern: For some time now, usually in the middle of some painful sex act, he'd started removing himself mentally, retreating to whatever last hiding place he had left in his muddled consciousness. Now, it was like he would blink and suddenly be some other place in the room, doing something else.

He was losing time in greater and greater chunks.

He thought it was something wrong with the dream, at first. Maybe the drugs. But his companion never seemed to notice, and Eames began to realize: it was _him_. He was so overwhelmed that when some familiar panic triggered him, he would literally shut down. It was the last thing his abused mind could do for him.

It terrified him.

He didn't want to be awake during the rapes, remembering all the details like he was trained to do, but he didn't want to be completely absent and at his tormentor's mercy either. He knew he couldn't be falling comatose -- the man in the white suit would have had something to say about that -- but he couldn't imagine what he was doing, every time he lost another period of time. Just lying there, pliant and submissive, obeying all orders like a good boy? It was, somehow, even worse to think about than him being conscious and allowing it to happen anyway.

He was scared his mind would leave for good one day and he wouldn't even exist except as a shell for people to fuck.

The man in white kissed him, once, on the lips, and he thought, impossibly, of Arthur. He tried to picture what Arthur's lips looked like and how they'd feel against his. What had once been a frequent fantasy was just a hazy memory now. He couldn't remember. Sometimes, in snatches, he'd remember the shade of Arthur's hair, or the colour of his eyes, or the precise deftness that was his hands. But he could never quite piece them all together to form a solid picture. Still, he clung on ferociously. He was losing himself. He couldn't lose Arthur, too, not even when he forgot why it was so important to remember.

 

+  
“You've been a little distant lately, Charlie.”

That was all the warning Eames got before his hands were bound to the bed and he was blindfolded, and the man's heavy weight was pinning his legs firmly to the bed. He was clothed; Eames wasn't.

“The restraints and blindfold are only for your safety,” the man told him. “I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself.”

Eames' heart raced like a rabbit trying to escape from his chest. He didn't try to dislodge the blindfold or struggle. He knew that wouldn't work. It was easiest to just go quiet and let them do what they needed to do and then leave. Only heroes in storybooks can fight forever.

He braced himself for great pain, but instead, the man wrapped his hand around Eames' cock and gave a gentle tug. He jacked Eames slowly, gently, and it took some time now, but before long he was hard and leaking. Eames was breathing hard, waiting for him to finish playing his games.

“Don't move, now.”

The hand went away. Something else stroked up the side of his cock, teasingly. It was cold. Eames twitched.

“I said don't move.”

It trailed up to the tip of his cock and dragged over the slit. The shackles scraped and clattered against the bed with a compulsive shudder when Eames felt it probe _inside_ him.

“Charlie.” A warning.

Now would be a good time to blank out, he thought wildly.

The probe slid into his cock. With his eyes covered everything felt five times worse. It felt too wide. Too long. Did not belong there. It was cold and alien and his body couldn't stand it being there and there was nothing, nothing he could do.

The man gave it a little twist and dragged it up a little and Eames nearly bit his lip through to keep from howling. Instead he let an agonized groan escape him. All his nerves felt traitorously hypersensitive, magnifying every slide and pull of the probe. It was not pleasurable. It wasn't meant to be. Even if it were, this was something Eames doubted he'd consider doing even with a partner he _trusted_ , if such a thing existed--

And at that thought, for half a second, his mind flickered inexplicably to that memory called Arthur--

He was shivering, breaking out in a freezing cold sweat. The man wrapped a hand tightly around his cock to feel the rigidness of the probe in there and, forgetting himself, Eames choked out, “S-stop--”

“No talking, Charlie.”

His voice was sharper. The probe slid deeper, deeper than Eames would have imagined was possible. His body was clenched so tensely it was painful. Only long, long practise held him in place, but he couldn't stop gasping for breath, trying to turn his head and muffle the sound in his shoulder. He thought he'd be sick. He hadn't felt so horrifyingly awake in weeks. Eames had suffered many things down here, but he'd never been violated for violation's sake. He could scarcely wrap his head around it.

The probe went even deeper, slip-sliding like it was fucking him where no one was meant to fuck him, and it sent a bolt of agony through every nerve in Eames' body.

“Stop,” he pleaded, the word falling out involuntarily.

The man hit him. Then he twisted the probe brutally and yanked Eames' cock in an iron grip--

Eames' vision went black, wiping out the traces of light he could see through the blindfold. When he came back to himself a few seconds later he was still covered in sweat, still shivering feverishly, and it was over, he'd survived, the probe was gone and his wrists were being released. The blindfold came off last.

Eames had never seen so much of his own blood at once.

“You moved,” the man told him, with flat disappointment.

He vomited. He couldn't help it. The man struck him, close-fisted this time, hard enough to knock him right off the bed. He followed Eames onto the floor with a vicious kick and finally, recognizing a threat, Eames' brain shut off and turned perfectly static.

He didn't like anybody touching him there anymore. He _hated_ it.

But nobody paid any attention to his boundaries anyway.

Including, as it turned out, Arthur.

_That_ hurt worse than anything.

+  
+  
+

When he came back Arthur was in the room again. The lights were on. He felt stiff. He blinked and pulled his head back from the wall.

“Eames,” said Arthur, sounding half relieved, half scared.

He sat back and took stock, quietly.

“Drink some water,” said Arthur. “Next to you,” he added.

Eames looked down and saw a glass of water on the carpet within arm's length of him. It had small, melted ice cubes in it and condensation all over the glass. He touched it, picked it up and drank to rid himself of the taste in his mouth.

“Eames, I ... I don't know what to say to you. I don't know what happened. I'm so sorry. I never meant for ...” Arthur's voice became small and tired. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

“Yes, you did.” Eames swallowed an ice cube. He felt it burn all the way down his throat. “That's exactly what you meant to do.”

“No,” Arthur protested, exhausted.

“Yes.”

Eames turned on his knees to face him. Arthur was sitting in one of the uncomfortable armchairs, hunched over, his hands knotted in his lap, far away from Eames' personal space but not blocking the exit because Arthur knew him better than anyone.

“You wanted to scare me because you wanted to prove a point.”

“I ... no, I ... no,” said Arthur weakly. “No. That's not it at all ...” But his conviction was dwindling.

“And I'm glad you did it, Arthur.” Something sharp as flint was creeping into Eames' tone. So many emotions were warring inside him, fury and hurt and humiliation, he couldn't tell which one stood out most strongly. The words came out thickly. “You proved it. You were right all along. I'm not ready to have sex with you, I never was, and -- I don't think I ever will be. I don't know why I thought I was ready for it. I'm just not.”

His voice broke.

“I don't think I can be with you, Arthur.”

“I don't care,” Arthur whispered. He was pale. “I don't care about sex, Eames, I don't.”

“I want you to be my _partner_ ,” said Eames. “Not my baby-sitter. But you're never going to be that.” He swallowed hard. “And I don't trust you.”

Arthur looked like Eames had hit him in the gut. Shock skated across his features and it was followed by unmistakeable devastation.

Eames had to look away, because he'd never seen such candid emotion on Arthur's face before and it made him uncomfortable. He drained the last of the water, then stood up and found his clothing from the day before, which he'd tossed to the carpet as usual because he knew Arthur would be compelled to fold it up and put it back in his suitcase in the morning, except not this morning. He got dressed. Arthur didn't say anything.

“I'm sorry I pushed you to that,” said Eames, when he was fully clothed again. He paused. “I'm leaving.”

“You can't.”

“I can, and I'm going to.”

He was almost at the door when Arthur scrambled to his feet and said, “Wait!”

The stark desperation in the word made Eames stop. He waited without turning around.

And after a long, silent struggle for words, all Arthur could come up with to make him stay was a soft, “Please.”

“I'll collect my things sometime tomorrow. I'm going to do this job because I told Cobb I would, and then I'm going to book the next flight to Mombasa and go home. Don't feel badly because I pushed you, Arthur. You knew this was going to happen eventually. I'm too dependant on you and I can't be, anymore. It isn't healthy. For either one of us.”

“I don't care,” said Arthur helplessly.

“Yes, you do, because you care about me.”

Eames opened the door. He hesitated, and bowed his head against the doorframe, closing his eyes tiredly.

“I love you, whatever that's worth now,” he said, and left.

He hoped it hurt like hell.


	2. Chapter 2

“You're late.” Cobb raised an eyebrow. “I expected you earlier.”

“Yeah. Well.” Eames had his hands shoved in his pockets, resentfully. “Had to pick up some smokes. And stop for a drink or two.”

Cobb let him in. Eames entered the room warily. The lights were all on and Cobb was dressed in his day clothes and everything.

“What made you so sure I'd come here?” he demanded. “I could've gone to Ari. Or found another hotel.”

“But you wouldn't have, because Ariadne would ask questions about why you're not with Arthur, and I won't do that. And I know you don't like spending the night alone.”

Eames half considered leaving right then, but he was tired and jet-lagged and besides, Cobb was right. He sank down onto the little couch in Cobb's room. Square and uncomfortable just like the chairs in his and Arthur's.

“I suppose Arthur called you.”

“He's pretty shook up,” Cobb conceded, taking a seat at the end of the bed, facing Eames. “As shook up as Arthur gets, anyway.”

Eames bowed his head, propped his elbows on his knees and rubbed wearily at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

“I don't care. He's not allowed to be shook up. I'm the one who ...”

He sucked in a breath through his teeth. He couldn't finish the sentence. Cobb seemed to understand.

“Arthur's my partner; I trained him myself and I trust him with my life. But he's not very good when it comes to things like emotions or communication.” The bed creaked as Cobb leaned forward. “You know he's more into action. I think he's been feeling helpless for a long time now because he can't physically do anything to help you. And I think he might have mistakenly taken some of that frustration out on you. I'm not saying it's okay,” he clarified, raising his hands. “Just telling you what I think.”

“You're right,” said Eames flatly. “It's not okay.”

Cobb sighed.

“You can take the couch if you really want, but I think the floor will be more comfortable.”

Eames would have made a joke about sharing the bed, probably involving spooning, but it didn't seem appropriate given the circumstances. Cobb pulled the duvet off his bed and tossed him a pillow and Eames worked them both into something vaguely resembling a sleeping bag that wasn't going to be very comfortable, but it wasn't as though he'd be getting much sleeping done anyway.

“Take today off from dreaming, too.” Cobb turned off the lights and Eames heard him shedding clothes. “Straighten your head out. But I want to see something by Monday. Is that fair?”

“Yeah. Alright. Cobb?”

“What?”

Eames wasn't sure what had compelled him to speak and he didn't know if, for one absurd second, he might actually have been about to proposition Cobb. So he said something else, the first thing to pop into his head:

“You know Arthur better than anybody, don't you?”

“Probably,” said Cobb, not even bothering to pretend that Eames might hold that title, because they both knew he didn't.

“What do you think would've happened if it had been Arthur they'd taken ... instead of me?”

For a couple seconds Cobb was silent. When he spoke, Eames knew his silence wasn't from surprise, but rather consideration.

“He'd have lost his mind,” he said simply, without a trace of doubt.

Eames had the entire rest of the night to think about that, while Cobb slept. He didn't know what to make of that.

 

+  
In the morning, Eames feigned sleep so that he could lag behind another hour or two after Cobb got up and left. He wasn't quite ready to face the rest of the team -- or the possibility of encountering JJ again -- so he spent a couple of hours steeling himself. With some apprehension, he went to break into Arthur's hotel room on the floor below Cobb's, and found that the point man had left the door open for him.

Arthur was gone, making it safe for him to collect all his things, except for one: He pulled a burgundy hoodie out of his suitcase and left it rumpled up on Arthur's bed.

Everything else was lugged back up to Cobb's. He stowed them under the bed, in case Cobb got the impression that Eames was planning on bunking with him all week. He still had some dignity to speak of.

When he could avoid it no longer, he took the subway to the seedy neighbourhood in Lower Manhattan where the studio apartment was. He jogged up the stairs hastily, not wanting to linger, even in broad daylight.

Reaching the loft, he found that somebody -- no doubt Arthur -- had completely redecorated their working space. All the white sheets had been taken off the furniture, and the tables had been pushed around to serve as individual desks for each of them, a chair pulled up to each. Even some rickety folding chairs had been procured, standing around the PASIV in its silver briefcase.

Cobb was on the far side of the room, scribbling on a whiteboard with sharp, violent strokes of the marker. Arthur, sitting at a table in one corner and poring over a pile of paperwork, was wearing a sweatervest with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up today. He looked as clean-cut and prim as ever, except that his eyes were almost as bloodshot as Eames'.

JJ was nowhere in sight. A small relief.

He spied a file folder lying on one of the makeshift desks with a sticky-note tacked to it, reading, in Arthur's crisp handwriting, _Eames_. In spite of himself, he took a seat and pulled the folder over, half expecting to find some precisely-worded letter of apology inside when he opened it.

Instead, just to be predictable, Arthur had left a sheaf of papers, his own notes, and a stack of photographs. Of course. Eames snuck a glance at him.

“I think he's been here all night.” Ariadne was sliding into the chair nearest to him and scooting closer. “I don't know how he dug up so much information so fast. It's way more than what JJ left us. He went under with the mark for two hours, too, just to tail him, since we can't do that in reality this time. I dunno how he's doing it, I was so jet-lagged yesterday I was out like a light. He's like a robot.”

“'Extra-terrestrial' was always my theory,” Eames remarked.

Ariadne grinned at him, then dropped her voice conspiratorially low. “I'd stay away from our fearless leader this morning, if I were you. He's in a pretty foul mood.”

“Who, Cobb?” Eames looked over at the extractor, who was still scrawling manically across the board. “Why? What's happened?”

“That guy, McAvoy, the one who doesn't like me, he showed up early this morning with a proposition for Cobb. He offered him double what he's paying him if Cobb agreed to kill this mark once we find out he's guilty -- if he is.”

Surprised, Eames said, “An unscrupulous man would take the deal and shoot the man for the money, without gathering proof at all.”

“Right, but most people have scruples, and I think the idea is that if Cobb's responsible for whether this guy lives or dies, he's going to try especially hard to find real, solid proof that he's guilty before making the call.”

“So did Cobb take the deal?”

“No,” said Ariadne. “But Arthur did.”

Eames stared at her. “You're joking.”

“Nope.”

“No wonder Cobb's angry.”

They both glanced over at the extractor's protégé, who was still reading feverishly through the sheets of intelligence he'd gathered while propping open his laptop at the same time, oblivious to their attention.

“I'll let you get to work, anyway,” said Ariadne, getting up. “Oh -- and don't use that bathroom over there, it's not worth it.”

She pulled a face, and went back over to her own desk in the opposite corner of the room.

Eames had to steel himself all over again. Couldn't put it off forever. He opened the folder again. He knew it would be difficult.

He started reading anyway.

The ironic thing was that Arthur wasn't handing him anything he wouldn't show Eames in normal circumstances. True, they'd never _quite_ had to work a job like this one before, but Arthur couldn't be blamed for the nature of the research. It was entirely possible he _hadn't_ arranged all the information so that the most important parts -- naturally, the background information and exhaustive police reports and autopsies of the rape and murder victims -- were on the top of the pile. Their mark's name was Joseph Ford and he'd been charged with seven counts of murder overall. Eames soon began to see that, if Ford was indeed their man, he could sooner be called a serial rapist than a killer. The murder came second to the sexual assault as a matter of convenience. The murders were quick, strangulation or suffocation; it was the pre-mortem damage that was so extensive and unsettling.

Eames had to stop five times, and each time he forced himself to keep reading. He had to read and let his mind construct a solid picture of each girl and what she was like in life, and then flip the page and watch her be taken apart in stark, unpassionate typeface. But there was no way he could get a feel for the forgery he'd have to concoct if he didn't know everything about Ford's pattern and what he liked, what made him tick, what got his motor going. Whatever he forged would have to catch Ford's attention right away and hold it for as long as necessary.

He found himself queasily hoping that Ford wasn't their man.

He thumbed through the photographs at the bottom and found McAvoy's daughter. Hard to believe something so delicate and pretty could come from such a rough, hardened man. Or had the year-long court trial done that to him?

When Arthur approached his desk sometime after noon, Eames had the folder propped up in his lap and was chewing on the end of his pen. Arthur glanced over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow.

“The Saturday _Times_ crossword?”

“Bought it at the airport yesterday.”

“You never cease to surprise me, Eames.”

“It's good exercise for my brain.” Eames tapped his temple with the pen. “Helps me work.”

“I'm sure it does.” Arthur dropped a small stack of papers on his desk. Eames could see that both sides of each sheet were covered in Arthur's tiny, impeccable handwriting, right down to cramped little notes stuffed into the margins. “I've been jotting down a couple theories based on the information I've gathered -- how he chooses the victims, what he wants from them, things like that. It should help you.”

Eames stared at the papers and raised his eyebrows. It wasn't just the sheer amount of paperwork Arthur had muscled through like he was running on a concoction of speed, caffeine and Red Bull this morning. What really surprised him was the blasé, impersonal way Arthur spoke to him. Like it really was just that easy for the point man to compartmentalize. He'd already taken that morning's scene, studied it, boxed it up, and tucked it away where it wouldn't interfere with his work performance. Like Eames was that easy to forget about.

There was a slow, angry burn in Eames' stomach. If Arthur wanted to pretend that this was any other job and nothing had ever happened to Eames or between the two of them -- fine.

“Thank you, darling.” He smiled sweetly around the pen clamped in his teeth, certain the barbed pet name would sting. “I'm sure it will.”

Arthur blinked. He turned and started walking away.

“Hang on,” said Eames. A thought had struck him, and as long as they were playing this game, well, Arthur was the point man, after all. He was the one who knew everything.

Arthur stopped and glanced back at him, expressionless.

“This fellow we're working with,” said Eames, taking the pen out of his mouth and twirling it idly around his fingers like his pulse hadn't just quickened nervously. “This -- JJ. I've never heard of him before. Have you ever worked with him?”

Arthur shook his head. “Not me or Cobb, not personally, no. I've heard about him though. The story is that he's very wealthy, born into old money, I think, and when he got bored with other pursuits he started hiring people in the dreaming business to train him to do it. Sort of a spoiled brat wanting to play with the big kids. But by all accounts he's good enough at it to freelance. I wouldn't imagine he needs the money, I think he just enjoys the thrill of it. Reality's not big enough for him.” Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “I don't think he's been involved in illegal pursuits for very long, though, which might be why you hadn't heard about him. I guess he just started to find legal work too boring for him. Does that answer your question?”

“It does, thank you. Knew I could count on you, as usual, Arthur.”

Arthur turned his back and left.

JJ. What a stupid name to pick for the business. It didn't suit him. Eames scowled and went down to the next floor for a cigarette, so that Arthur wouldn't see him pacing and sweating and thinking furiously about how he was supposed to deal with this problem on top of everything else.

After work he and Cobb went to a bar to wile away the last hours before they could feasibly return to the hotel. They didn't talk about the job or Arthur. Eames decided he liked Cobb again.

He cut himself off after two beers, because he knew if he kept going, he wouldn't stop. So when they got back to the hotel, and Eames realized he'd forgotten to book his own hotel room and Cobb just sighed and opened the door, he was barely buzzed. That was how he knew beyond a doubt that something was wrong, when Cobb stepped inside, and Eames was standing too close and Cobb brushed past him, a fleeting contact ( _a threat_ , wildly thought in the back of his mind) and Eames didn't even know he was leaning dangerously, dizzily in until Cobb put a hand on his chest and pushed him back a step, gently but firmly.

“That's not okay,” he reminded Eames quietly.

“Fuck,” Eames said weakly. He slumped to the floor.

Cobb stepped wordlessly past him, giving him space, and switched on the lights, then watched him carefully to see what he'd do. The door was still open. So that Eames could make an escape if he wanted to? So that Cobb wouldn't have to be locked up with him? He couldn't guess.

“Something's wrong with me, Cobb,” he said with plain exhaustion. “I don't know what I'm doing. I got so much better than this, I swear I did. I haven't been like this in months. I don't know what's happening to me.”

He expected Cobb to throw him out or something. He knew all this was making Cobb more uncomfortable than he'd like to say. Instead, his employer took a seat on the bed.

“After Mal died,” he said quietly, looking down at his folded hands, “it was like there wasn't a part of my body that didn't physically hurt. I shouldn't have kept dreaming, but I did, and I let the situation get out of hand. The problem with dreamers is that we let our subconsciouses turn into living, breathing things, and when there's too much buried in there, it'll start to sneak up on you, even when you're awake. You lose control.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Eames asked tiredly. Cobb shrugged.

“The alternative is to stop dreaming.”

Eames thought about JJ. Then he thought about how much he loved his job, how every time he met a new person he had analyzed in seconds their facial structure and the way they spoke and smiled and moved, how forging came as naturally to him as breathing.

“I don't think I can do that,” he said.

“I couldn't, either.” Cobb smiled sadly. “I don't know what else to tell you, Eames. I don't know what you need, and even if I did, I don't think I'd be the person to give it to you.” He shook his head and said, “I can call the front desk and book you another room, if you want.”

Eames nodded. It hadn't hit him until Cobb had brushed him that he still didn't trust men -- not even one he'd known for years. Arthur had seemed safe for awhile, but not anymore, and Cobb -- Cobb was virtually an unknown, now. He might not necessarily hurt Eames, but there were a thousand tiny things the extractor could do to trigger him and not even realize, and Eames was starting to live in fear of the next trigger. He could no longer know how he'd react. He was regressing, the very thing he'd been so afraid of.

When the room was booked, Eames fetched his key card from the front desk and took his luggage from Cobb's room to his own. He switched the lights on and immediately hated it. It was every fucking hotel room and every fucking bed he'd ever been stretched over and raped on in his dreamscape.

He had to get some sleep before he collapsed.

He turned around in the doorway and left the room.

It was surprisingly easy to break into Arthur's room. Eames was extremely cautious sneaking across the room, because he didn't want to wake Arthur up -- that would have been too hard to face. Instead, he crept over to the PD, a flicker of silver in the sliver of light cast through the door, and took it. He went back to his own room.

At least it was sleep.

That was what he told himself.

He stretched out on the floor because he couldn't make himself vulnerable on the bed, and pressed the trigger button. The PASIV gave a comforting wheeze, and he slumped against the carpet.

+  
+  
+

Arthur had heard Eames break in, and even without rolling over or opening his eyes, he knew what Eames took. He glanced over at the wall where the PD was supposed to be as soon as the door clicked shut, and confirmed his hunch. _Shit._

He left his room, not caring that he was only clad in grey sweatpants and an old t-shirt, and hurried over to the elevator whose doors had just closed. He watched the numbers above it flicker electronically: from 2, to 3, to 4, finally stopping at 7.

He sprinted up the staircase. Arthur hated elevators. He didn't see that anybody else had to know this -- he could smother that deep discomfort as long as he was in the company of someone else -- but tonight he took the stairs, even though he knew it would take longer, chastising himself all the way.

It occurred to him that he didn't have a plan when he arrived at the landing. He'd wanted to stop Eames, grab him, grab the PASIV, shake some sense into him, kiss him--

No. Not that last one. Not any of those except the first one, now, because he couldn't touch Eames. He'd lost that right.

And it hurt all over again.

He squashed that feeling and paced the hallway, stymied. What next? Bang on every door? Demand that Eames open up?

One door hadn't been shut properly. He only just noticed this. Holding his breath, he pushed it. The clasp gave with a little click and the door swung open a crack.

“Oh, Eames.”

He was already laid out on the floor, unconscious. Arthur approached, then drew back, moving around him in an awkward dance of uncertainty. Eames didn't trust him anymore. He'd come out of that nightmare coma and it had immediately been Arthur he'd clung to, Arthur he wanted, Arthur whose lap he'd wept in. For that to be struck away over one stupid _fucking_ mistake -- it was like a shard of broken glass in Arthur's lungs, every time he breathed in, the knowledge always sitting right there and bleeding him slowly.

What the hell was Eames thinking now, going under alone?

And another thought struck Arthur: what if he'd done this _before?_

Before he could change his mind, Arthur sank to the floor and grabbed a second IV line, jamming it into his own wrist. He fell back onto the carpet--

And blinked, squinting his eyes.

It wasn't quite what he'd expected.

Arthur couldn't say what he _had_ expected. He'd immediately jumped to the conclusion that putting himself under, alone, like this, was Eames' own warped method of self-harm -- that he was maybe _looking_ to meet his own projections. He thought, with a guilty, nervous flutter of his heart, that he might be about to face the dreamscape that had been the setting of Eames' long torture.

Instead, he was standing in a long, closed room with an arched ceiling. Lights flashed and flickered at him from every angle. It took him a minute to realize that what he was looking at was mirrors -- mirrors, hundreds of them, chiselled into every facet of the walls like a brilliant mosaic with spidery gold threads between them, so that Arthur's own reflection surrounded him on all sides. He took out his gun, wary.

“It's okay,” said Eames behind him. His voice was unnaturally calm and had a slight echo. “The mirrors keep them away, for now.”

Arthur slowly replaced the gun and turned around to face him. Eames' hands were in his pockets. He looked tired and careworn. Now Arthur noticed that the floor was gold, too, a gleaming gold that reflected both their images like glass, so that there was a second Eames distorted in the floor.

“Keep who away?” he asked, his heart pounding.

“The projections. They won't come in.”

Arthur realized with a shock that there was an open doorway at the other end of the room as a tall figure in white clothing walked past, silent and unexpected, like a ghost. The report his gun made when it went off exploded around the room. It hadn't done any good; the figure had already passed from view.

“It's okay,” Eames repeated firmly, placing a hand on Arthur's gun. He pushed down until the muzzle was pointed at the floor. Arthur panted, staring hard at the doorway as though willing the projection to reappear. “He won't come in -- not yet, at least. You can't get rid of that one, anyway.”

“Why do the mirrors keep them out?” Arthur asked, tearing his eyes away from that dark outer passage.

“Because they make me feel safe,” said Eames simply.

Arthur put his gun away a second time, warily, ready to reach for it at a second's notice. Walking away a few paces, Eames sat down comfortably on the floor.

“This isn't what I expected,” Arthur admitted, following him, and stopping several feet away.

“Did you want to see the casino?”

“No,” Arthur answered, too hastily. A cool smile played around Eames' lips.

“Good, because I wouldn't show you anyway. Why would I? Why would I let you see that?” he said. “What are you even doing here?”

“I'm sorry.” Arthur sat down across from him, skated his fingertips over the reflective surface of the floor. “I just ... was worried.”

“You don't get to be worried about me anymore, Arthur.”

“I worried about you all day.”

Eames just exhaled through his nose, shook his head and bowed it, as though too exhausted to go on recriminating him. They were silent for a time.

“I'm sorry,” said Arthur softly, at length. “You were right. What I did -- I did want to scare you, I guess. It was stupid and selfish and I wasn't even thinking, I just needed you to _stop_ before I did something I regretted. Something even worse than that, I mean.”

“I don't suppose plain English might have helped you.”

“I ...” Arthur tried to argue, and found that he couldn't.

“I know I was out of line,” said Eames. “I _know_. I knew it even while I was doing it, I just couldn't stop. And I know that isn't an excuse and I won't try to use it as one, I know I did wrong. But what you did, Arthur.” He paused, as though to gather himself before he could go on. His voice was lower when he did. “What you did was so much worse.”

“I know,” said Arthur brokenly.

“You don't know -- you can't _begin_ to know.” Eames stopped to collect his breath. “But you can guess,” he continued, quietly. “And that, Arthur, is what kills me.”

His breathing was still fast and slightly ragged. Arthur couldn't look anywhere near his eyes, so he just trained his gaze on the floor, trying to pretend that that broken glass in his lungs wasn't currently clawing its way through every vein in his heart.

He blinked as he gazed into the floor, and reached out to touch, lightly, with his fingertips. Eames' reflection wasn't his, anymore; it was a boy, a kid really, blond-haired and too distorted for Arthur to make out anything other than that.

“Who's that?” he said.

“That's Charlie,” said Eames.

There was a dull pause. Then Eames drew a gun and fired it straight into his own reflection.

“Jesus!” Arthur flung an arm up to protect himself as the entire floor across the whole length of the room jolted and shattered, sending tiny fragments spraying across the room. “What--?” he spluttered.

Eames was laughing, the most humourless sound Arthur had ever heard a human being make.

“This is what you wanted so badly to see? This is what you thought I was trying to keep you out of? Can you blame me, Arthur? I was trying to protect you.”

The floor was still splintering, noisily, cracks racing through it like an earthquake under their feet; the mirrors were starting to shatter, exploding outward in violent bursts, one by one. The room was growing darker and darker, and it seemed to Arthur that it was growing shorter, too, more claustrophobic, pushing that open doorway closer and closer to where they were sitting. But it all stopped, all of it, a chilling hush falling over the collapsing room when Arthur impulsively lurched forward and grabbed onto Eames' hand.

Eames' eyes flickered up to his, dark and hollow and inscrutable. Arthur had to lick his lips before he could speak.

“Let me in,” he said, desperate.

Eames looked down again, at Arthur's hand covering his own, and--

They were in the warehouse in Paris. It was devoid of other people. Sunlight beamed down through the windows, broad shafts full of swirling dust motes that fell around them like snow. Eames stirred and looked around, blinking in the light like he was waking up.

Arthur took both his hands and held them tight.

“Eames,” he said quietly, forcefully. “I'm not ever going to leave you in that dreamscape again. Do you hear me? Not ever.”

“Do you know how long five years is?” Eames asked him bleakly. “Mal was alive five years ago, Arthur.”

“I know. And I am so, so sorry that I couldn't find you sooner than that. I want you to know something, though.”

Eames looked up at him, hopelessly. Arthur had to swallow hard.

“All those men who kidnapped you,” he said. “Every one of them who had something to do with it, I killed them. All of them, even the ones I had to hunt down, and I set that place on fire and I burned it to the ground. No one is going to take you away again, Eames. No one's ever going to hurt you or touch you again. Not even me, if that's what you want. I swear it. I _swear_.”

Eames' lips parted slightly. He seemed to be searching Arthur's eyes very intently, his gaze flicking back and forth from each one. Arthur knew he could read the conviction there.

“Oh,” he said softly, and taking his hands out of Arthur's grasp, he raised them instead to Arthur's face, cradling gently with a thumb on each cheek. “My Arthur,” he murmured, and Arthur didn't understand, right away, why Eames' gaze was filled with so much sadness-- “What must you have been like before Cobb got ahold of you?”

“Cobb had nothing to do with it,” said Arthur. Eames shook his head slowly, closing his eyes.

“I see so much of him in so many of the things you do.”

“You're telling me you don't want them dead?” Arthur asked disbelievingly.

“No. I already knew, and I'm glad they're dead. But you've got such a ruthless streak to you, it ...” And Arthur nearly didn't hear the words, _frightens me sometimes._

“I would _never_ hurt you on purpose,” said Arthur. He was turning urgent now, desperate for some way to put them back on the same side. “You know I wouldn't.”

“I know. And maybe it's just because of me that this will never work.”

“Why?” Arthur demanded. “How?”

Eames laughed again, gently, self-mocking. “Because,” he said. “I'm so in love with you it burns me up from the inside out every second of every day and I can't stand not touching you. And that terrifies me, because I can't let you touch me back, and that's the one thing I want more than anything, more than _breathing_ , is to be touched by you. And I can never let myself go long enough for that to happen. Don't you see, pet? Things like this will keep happening as long as I'm near you. We can't win either way.”

“A paradox,” Arthur murmured, and Eames nodded. “I told you I don't care about sex.”

“You deserve somebody who can stand to be touched by you without flinching.” Eames took one of his hands, raised it and pressed a kiss to his palm. Arthur's hand burned cold where Eames' lips touched it. “Don't waste yourself on me. You're too brilliant for that, Arthur.”

“I don't want someone else.”

“You will,” said Eames. “Five, ten years from now, you will. This won't work, and you'll see that, and I'll have to watch you leave me bit by bit until one day you'll just be gone like I never had you at all.”

“Never,” said Arthur desperately.

“Yes,” said Eames, the truth of the words crushing and inexorable. “I'm sorry.”

“Eames,” said Arthur, voice shaky now. He knew he was begging by now. He didn't care. It was starting to hit him, the way it hadn't last night, that this was really happening, that Eames was really sitting across from him and telling him that they were done; even though it was in a dream, this was happening and the pain was real. This was a punishment, he thought, for all those dreams he'd had, all those dreams he couldn't control. He'd promised never to hurt Eames and Eames had seen right through him, reading him effortlessly as only a forger and a gambler could. “This can't happen.”

“It has to happen.” Eames' fingers on his lips halted any protest Arthur might have made. “Hush. This will only hurt for a moment.”

“What are you going to do?” Arthur asked weakly.

“Inception,” said Eames, with a lopsided smile.

“You can't.”

“Pretend for me, Arthur.” Eames leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest against Arthur's, and Arthur gulped. “Shut your eyes.”

His whisper ghosted over Arthur's face. Arthur obeyed numbly, tremblingly.

“That's it, my darling,” Eames murmured. There was so much sorrow in his voice, weighing down each word unbearably. “You're going to forget about me, now, in three ...”

The lip of the gun touched Arthur's jaw, icy cold.

“Two ...”

The gun cocked.

_One._

Arthur woke up.

He left the room in a hurry, before Eames could have a chance to see how terribly close to breaking he was.

+  
Eames hadn't been ready.

Arthur hadn't thought that he was pushing him at the time, but it would hit him later, when he saw the way Eames looked at him, like a dog with its beloved master, like he'd do fucking anything if Arthur only asked him to. And that was how they ended up on the Paris Métro.

“You can do it,” Arthur murmured to him, over and over, his leg brushing Eames' reassuringly. Eames just nodded and hunched his shoulders, trying unconsciously to deflect attention.

He didn't even like going out in daylight. Arthur should have realized.

It was too much.

More people had boarded the train within the first three stops, and by the fourth Eames had been pushed to his absolute limits, folded over with his head almost between his knees and taking short, shallow breaths like sobs. Wordlessly Arthur grabbed him by the hand and pulled him off the train, shouldering a path through the throng of people.

He found them a bathroom and locked the door. Eames sat on the toilet seat and tried to catch his breath, head in his hands. Occasionally he scratched at his wrists, where he'd already left marks, trying to pull out phantom IVs. Arthur stood sentinel like a guard dog, watching over him.

“I see them everywhere,” Eames said at last, dropping his hands away from his face, and Arthur realized with an unpleasant shock that there were tears in his eyes. “Everywhere. All the time. I can't get away from them.”

“I'm here,” said Arthur. He couldn't say, _it's okay_ , because no, it wasn't, it wouldn't ever be again.

“I hate this. I hate knowing that they're out there. I'm going to spend the rest of my life like this, this miserable shut-in, because I see them everywhere I go and every time I see them I'm so afraid I'll forget who I am again.”

Arthur crossed the small room and hunkered down in front of him and gestured his intentions. When Eames nodded wearily, Arthur clasped his face in both his hands and drew him into a light kiss.

“If you forget,” he said, “then I'll remember for you.”

“Tell me who I am,” said Eames, and Arthur answered:

“You're Eames. You're English, and a forger, and you drive me crazy every day. You smoke and you cheat at cards. You hide your considerable intellect under a facade of carelessness because that makes it easier for you to get close to people, but you secretly enjoy trashy American television shows all the same. You like Earl Grey tea with extra sugar and Marmite on your toast, for reasons I can't fathom. The first time we met, I threatened to break your arm if you didn't remove it from my personal space. The first time I punched you in the face it was right after we woke up from our first job together, and the first time you had to kill me in a dream, you put the bullet right between my eyes so it wouldn't hurt too much. You're the pain in my ass and the man I will never, ever give up on, that's who you are.”

Eames opened his mouth to speak and shut it again. The faintest ghost of a smile was on his lips. At last, he managed, “God. I didn't ask for a biography.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and shook his head patiently, and waited two hours with him until he felt ready to brave the four stops back to their neighbourhood, gripping Arthur's hand tightly the whole way.

 

+  
The other incidents were less conspicuous:

They would be watching a TV program with the English captions on, and some person would appear on the screen during a news report, and all at once Eames would be gone from the room like smoke.

\-- Or they'd be on a walk together, maybe to the campus of Ariadne's school or nowhere in particular, talking, relaxed, and Eames' expression would suddenly become shuttered and he'd be tugging at Arthur's hand, begging, entreating him to turn back.

\-- Or they'd be sitting in a café somewhere and without warning Eames would get up and flee, leaving Arthur to hastily count out some money and leave it scattered on the table before chasing after him, finding him a street away already with a cigarette clamped shakily between his teeth and his gaze a thousand yards away.

“It can't be them,” he told Arthur repeatedly, as if Arthur was the only one who needed reassuring. “I know it can't be. But there were so many of them, and what if it is, someday?”

Arthur felt perfectly helpless. If he were able to, he'd have put a bullet in every one of Eames' demons for him, and made the world safe for him all over again. But he couldn't do that, and that meant there was nothing he could do.

Later, he would have opportunity to think again: He should have realized.

+  
“Can I bum a smoke?” JJ asked.

“Sure.” Arthur pulled a second one out of his pack and handed it over, along with the lighter.

“Thanks.” He watched the other extractor light up from the corner of his eye. “Wouldn't have pegged you for a smoker.”

“I'm not. At least, not in reality. Usually.” Arthur stuffed the imaginary lighter back into his pocket and took a deep drag. The smell and the taste of cigarette smoke had always made him think of Eames. Right now he was craving it more than he'd like to admit.

They smoked side by side.

“How does a kid like you get caught up in illegal extraction, anyway?”

“With surprising ease.” Arthur watched the smoke trickle out of his lips along with the words. JJ watched him sidelong.

“I've heard your team's the best in the world.”

“Cobb certainly is,” said Arthur loyally. “I don't know about the rest of us,” even though he did know, yes, they were the best. You had to be the fucking best to pull off something like inception. They'd kept that job close to their chests, though; inception was far too dangerous a concept for them to broadcast that it was possible.

“You and Eames have got quite the reputation in the field as well.”

“Have we?” said Arthur, even though he knew this, too.

“There's a lot of extractors who'd love to have you as a point. Did you know that?”

“I've had offers,” Arthur conceded.

“But you're still Cobb's man, even though they're saying he's semi-retired now?” said JJ.

“Yes.”

JJ grunted contemplatively. “What about Eames?” he asked. “Can he be bought for the right price?”

“For the right price, on occasion,” said Arthur guardedly. He felt a surge of protectiveness that he had no right to feel, and said, “He's happier sticking to a home team for now, though, I don't know that he'll be looking to get back into freelancing. Why? Do you need a forger?”

JJ nodded. “I've been looking for one for awhile now,” he said.

“You might try Johan, in Cape Town last I heard. He's a decent forger.”

“Thanks for the tip,” said JJ.

They went on smoking outside a quiet, shady cafe for awhile, until their mark finally appeared across the street. Ford was exiting a gym and sweating lightly, barely out of breath.

Arthur checked his watch. “Forty-seven minutes,” he said. “Again.”

“Will that be enough time?”

“I don't think so.”

Arthur had recreated the mark's home neighbourhood and every time he reintroduced Ford to the dreamscape, his daily routine was exactly the same: go to the gym down the street at one o'clock, spend no more than three quarters of an hour there, and spend the rest of the entire day in his apartment. Currently unmedicated, he was stuck in a depressive episode, and they couldn't wait the weeks or months it could take for him to enter a manic state.

“The problem is, the proof likely won't be in the apartment itself, if he's paranoid enough that he has subcon security,” Arthur explained. “Cobb will firstly have to break in undetected by any of Ford's projections, and then hopefully find something in the apartment that will lead him to wherever Ford might keep his secrets. A safety deposit box key, say.”

“And how long will that take him?”

“I don't know,” said Arthur, thinking. Cobb was good, and with his memory he would only need to scan the place, but he wasn't _that_ fast. “It would be pretty tight.” He looked at the gym. “So Eames will have to intercept him, then.”

They let the timer run out and Arthur started to pack up the PASIV numbly on the floor of the loft. He'd been trying to find some way they could do this job without needing the forger, but they just didn't have an alternative. Ford was anti-social; it would take somebody particular to catch his attention while he was at the gym. And there was no way they could remove him from the apartment by force or coercion, because his subconscious security would kick in right away if he felt threatened.

Eames looked way too calm when Arthur brought him the final report.

“Do you think you're ready?” he asked, despite himself. Eames surveyed him from hooded eyes.

“I've analyzed everything. Their facial patterns. Their histories. Their temperaments. I know what he likes about them and what he looks for in their appearance and mannerisms.I know what he wants from them. I have a girl in mind. You needn't worry about me, Arthur. Just concentrate on your job.”

“Let's just get this over with,” said Arthur.

They were taking Eames under to introduce him to Ford's dreamscape: Arthur and JJ as his guides, being the most familiar with their mark's head, and Ariadne to study the architecture, since her previous run with them was just to familiarize themselves with Ford's mental security, a fast-paced game of cat-and-mouse that left no time for careful examinations. But Arthur suspected she was also there to keep an eye on Eames on Cobb's behalf, in case he started changing the dream unexpectedly. She wouldn't be going under with them for the real run, though. Eames would be on his own.

Cobb hooked them all up, starting with Ford and ending with Eames.

“Don't take too long,” he said.

Arthur was still struck by how unnaturally relaxed Eames looked. He tugged at the IV line slightly, then sat back in his chair and folded his hands calmly in his lap.

They went under.

They found themselves standing on the corner of the street Ford's apartment building was on, the sidewalks bustling with New Yorkers. Arthur gently ushered Ariadne out of their way, against the nearest building -- an electronics store -- and looked round to see if JJ and Eames had moved aside as well. Eames was already in front of the store, peering into the front window intently.

JJ reappeared at Arthur's side. “What's he doing?”

Ignoring him, Arthur said warningly, “Eames, don't, not in front of the--”

Eames turned, already pretty and young and delicate and very female, and Arthur felt his mouth snap shut. It was one of the quickest forgeries he'd ever seen Eames do on the first try, and -- he had to admit, it was flawless. This disguise was small, no bigger than five-foot-two and probably a hundred pounds at most, brown-haired like the other seven victims had been. It resembled them and yet was dissimilar in striking ways. Perfect.

“Oh, nice,” said Ariadne excitedly. JJ stared.

“There,” said Eames to Arthur, in a soft, feminine voice. “Is that good enough for you?”

“It'll do,” said Arthur, finding his voice. Eames' cool control stunned him.

“You're the best forger I've ever seen,” JJ commented. Eames turned away, lowering his disguise's eyelids and gazing into the reflective window again.

“I've met better forgers than myself.”

Arthur was trying to figure out why he'd lied when Ariadne gave his sleeve a short, sharp tug.

“What?” he asked, hearing how snappish his own voice was. He tempered his tone. “Sorry. I mean, what did you--”

“Arthur,” she cut him off in a whisper, pressing herself against his side as if to hide herself. Her voice was scared.

It had reason to be. Because everyone on the street, every single projection that was walking by them, right down to the women and children and the newscaster on the TV displayed in the store front window, was staring with unmistakeable, predatory hunger. Staring, not at Eames, but at Ariadne.

Arthur swung his head round breathlessly and saw that Eames had lost his disguise and with it, his control. He couldn't identify the wild, tortured emotion on the forger's face before Eames pulled out a gun and shot first Ariadne in the head and then himself, leaving JJ and Arthur standing there alone, stunned and speckled with their blood.

+  
+  
+

Useless, Eames thought bleakly of himself, staring out a cracked window at the building opposite. It was already dark out. Utterly fucking useless.

Arthur and Cobb were arguing on the other side of the room. JJ had already hurried off to discuss things with McAvoy. Ariadne was sitting in a chair, small and innocent and young and scared, absorbing it all.

“We're not fucking profilers, Cobb, and even profiles are never perfect! Eames and I looked at every possible angle, he had the forgery perfect, there's no way we could have anticipated this--”

“I don't understand,” said Cobb, loud and angry, “we already took her into his dream once before and the projections didn't react like that--”

“Because we were running around and hiding from his security before, I don't know, we were in plain sight this time with his normal projections, that's why they only noticed now--”

Eames heard a violent scrape of chair legs against the floor as Cobb dropped into the chair at his desk and buried his face in his hands.

“You're _sure_ ,” he said wearily. “Are you absolutely _sure_ of what happened.”

“It was eerie, Cobb.” Eames' own voice was hoarse. “I've never seen anything quite like it.”

“What if that's all the proof we need, then?” Ariadne spoke up suddenly. “I mean ... they wouldn't react like that if he wasn't ...”

She trailed off.

“Well, Arthur.” The chair creaked as Cobb turned to his point man. “You're the one who has to put the bullet in him. Is that proof enough for you?”

Arthur's lips thinned, and his eyes snapped to Eames' for a fleeting instant. And Eames didn't know, either. Ariadne resembled Ford's slain girlfriend. Grief had done stranger things to projections. Cobb was a perfect example of that.

It was Eames who broke the silence.

“We have to call this job off. I ... Arthur was right from the start. It isn't our business.”

“Exactly,” said Arthur. “We're in way over our fucking heads here and we have been from the start. We _have_ to stop this, Cobb.”

They were both staring hard at Cobb, who was looking more and more uncomfortable. It would have warmed Eames to be back on Arthur's side -- except that the point man had put all his armour back on, taking Eames' false inception attempt to heart. He was just as closed off and unreachable as he had been the day before, no trace that anything had happened between them but a second IV line abandoned on the floor when Eames woke up. And Eames was glad, in the very base of his stomach where he still allowed himself to feel anything for Arthur.

“Hey,” said Ariadne unexpectedly, hesitantly. “Doesn't my opinion count?”

“Go ahead,” Cobb told her.

“I want to do this.” Her lips were trembling but her voice was firm. “These girls got killed, and -- I want to help.”

“Out of the question,” said Arthur sharply. Her cheeks flushed an angry red.

“If Eames can do it, so can I. You guys wanted bait, well -- here I am.”

“I can't stop Eames from doing what he wants no matter how idiotic he's being. Whatever I think, he's done this before and he knows how to handle himself in a dream. You don't.”

“I can handle myself just fine!” she argued. “I'm an adult, Arthur. If Eames gets to decide he wants to do this, I should be able to, too!”

“You can forge her,” said Cobb, looking past Ariadne at Eames. “Can't you?”

“No!” Arthur shouted. “Why are we even still discussing this!”

“Because neither of you can forge, and neither of you look like me,” said Ariadne shakily, still angry. “Eames and I are the only two who can do this job, and that just drives you crazy because you don't think we could ever handle it. Cobb,” she entreated the extractor. “Tell him. Tell him he has no right to stop me if I want to do this.”

Cobb pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger, squeezing his eyes shut. He looked just like a concerned father as he said, “She's right, Arthur.”

Arthur strode straight up to the desk and planted his hands on it, staring Cobb in the eyes.

“I would do anything for you,” he said emphatically. “You know this.”

“I know.”

“And you trust me, don't you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then why haven't you listened to a single word I've said since we agreed to take this job,” Arthur ground out between his clenched teeth. “Cobb, if you trust my judgement at _all_ \-- let us walk away from this.”

Cobb got to his feet so abruptly that his chair was sent skidding out behind him.

“You listen to _me_ , Arthur,” he growled, and the effect was admittedly impressive: he seemed to tower over Arthur, and Eames hadn't seen too many men stand up to the brunt of Cobb's temper when he lost it. Not even the point man. “You think my judgement's skewed? Take a good look at yourself. Fourteen months ago there was no job you wouldn't take. You've become so obsessed with concern for Eames that you won't even consider the possibility of danger. You've completely lost sight of the fact that there are seven teenaged girls dead right now, and we're the only people that can prevent an eighth. This is my team and my call. _Back off._ ”

It was like watching two hackling wolves in a display of dominance posturing. For a few moments Arthur stared back at him inscrutably, eyes narrowed. But, at last, he dropped his gaze to the floor and let himself take a step back from the table, plainly defeated.

“Ariadne, it's your choice,” said Cobb, allowing some of the stiffness to leave his shoulders. “You know the risks.”

“I don't agree with this,” Eames broke back into the conversation. Cobb flicked a brief glance at him.

“You didn't care when it was you on the line.”

“Yes, well,” said Eames tersely, “we've seen the type of thing I can come back from. If something goes wrong, there's no saying what he'll do to Ari.”

“I'm sick of this manly bullshit,” said Ariadne suddenly. “And I don't need it. I don't care what Arthur says, I can hold my own in a dream. Even if it goes wrong. Even though I'm a _girl_. I can do this, and I will.”

“I know you can,” said Cobb softly, and it struck Eames that he knew what Cobb was thinking -- what he and Arthur were thinking, too. All at once it was the three of them trying to talk Mal out of some dangerous scheme, but the fire in her eyes would not be quenched and when they inevitably gave in to her and Mal went to work, there was no stopping her. She navigated the dreamworld like an artist, a dancer, a poet; like a dreamer; so full of passion that they were all at least a little in love with her.

Eames could see a little of her in Ariadne now, in the angry set of her jaw and the brightness of her eyes. He knew Arthur could too, because neither of them had any protest left in them, and for a second, their eyes met. He wondered if they were thinking the same thing. Arthur's eyes widened slightly, and he began to shake his head minutely. Eames looked away again.

Ariadne grabbed up her bag off a nearby table and started to walk away. “I'll be back for work tomorrow, and I'll start working on my defensive dreaming. I hope I'll see all three of you here, too.”

She left. Arthur packed up the PASIV in silence and followed suit.

“I'll never forgive you if she gets hurt, Cobb,” Eames vowed. Cobb chuckled humourlessly and didn't meet his eyes.

“I'm still having trouble forgiving myself for letting you get hurt.”

Eames walked out. At the base of the building, outside the door, Arthur was waiting there.

“I love you,” he said, when Eames stepped outside. There was an urgent, unreadable look in his eyes. “You know that, don't you?”

Eames could almost _see_ the gaping chasm that yawned between them. It was insurmountable. They would never be able to reach all the way across it. Every fibre of him ached and yearned for Arthur, and he would never again be able to just reach out and touch him. _Why_ , he thought brokenly, _couldn't you have just said that a year ago._

He'd spent roughly five years in that terrible dream and this, here, now, felt like hell. He tried to imagine spending one more night like this -- one more day in which Arthur moved just outside his reach, and Eames let him get further and further away -- and he couldn't. He was so exhausted.

“Don't do this to me, Arthur,” he managed to force out jaggedly, and walked into the street to flag a taxi. Arthur just stood there and watched as he got inside and it pulled away.

 

+  
Eames had three things in the bed with him: a notepad, a pen, and a gun.

He'd written, _Dear Arthur_ , but he didn't like that. It sounded too impersonal. He scratched it out impatiently, tore off the paper and tried again:

_Arthur_

It seemed like a good start, but he had no idea how to go on. He'd never had to write anything like this before, nor had he ever expected he would. “ _Sorry for blowing my brains out, hope you're well_ ”?

“Really pathetic,” he told himself fervently, and suddenly, he felt embarrassed. He tore off the new sheet and crumpled it up, too, with a great sigh. He wondered, shame lapping at him, what Mal would think of him, undoubtedly because he'd been thinking of her earlier. Promptly he remembered that that was no good because Mal had gone and bloody killed herself, too, after all.

So he thought instead of what a bleeding emotional _wreck_ Arthur had allowed himself to be, just for a day or two, after the funeral was over and Mal was in the ground and gone for good, for ever. It was the first time Eames had ever seen him lose control before. And then the point man had pulled it together, wrapped up his grief with all the edges tucked in and put it away because Cobb needed him in Milan, and Eames never saw him like that again.

Eames had ached so powerfully for the young man then.

He sighed and put down the pen and paper. He probably couldn't do this to Arthur. Try and compartmentalize something this big again and the point man just might explode. He couldn't have any room on that shelf inside him, where he kept all his emotions for him to take out at his leisure, for more grief.

Eames tossed the gun away. He hadn't really been that motivated anyway. He tried to start telling himself that things would get better than this, that it always looked darkest just before dawn, that he'd feel differently when the sun came up, various optimistic platitudes, et cetera, et cetera. He wasn't feeling any of them, though.

All he really wanted was to get some sleep.

He chucked the pen and paper at the wall, heard them hit with two satisfying smacks, and shut his eyes. He just needed to sleep. He would feel better, if he could only manage to get some fucking sleep.

To his astonishment, he did.

This time, he remembered his dream.

+  
+  
+

Immediately after being violated with the probe and summarily beaten by the man in the white suit, Eames woke up sprawled on the floor of the casino. He was still in Charlie's skin, in the frayed clothes he adorned Charlie in when he had occasion to, and he was alone. He'd never been so glad to see that fucking casino and hear the whirring slot machines.

Seven days in, he was nearly out of his mind. This dream wasn't designed to be occupied by only one person. There was nothing for him to do. He'd had respites like this before, but that was before he'd gotten so entrenched in the mire of this place. He had no idea what to do with himself anymore.

One day he came quite unexpectedly upon the room he'd secretly left for himself. He opened the door and Arthur's scent hit him like a tidal wave, awash with memories. He shut the door and curled up on the bed, and for the first time in many months, he had a long, restful sleep.

It was nearly two weeks before another person appeared, not a projection, and handed him a stack of new identities to forge, and he remembered how he was much better off alone after all.

The new flood of clients to paw at and fuck him was ceaseless, and he started losing time again, and consequently, when, several months later, Eames had to slip into Charlie's skin like a worn, faded old hoodie and was met on the steps outside the hotel by the man in the white suit, he experienced an odd, unfamiliar strangled feeling in his throat.

“Did you miss me?” the man asked.

Eames started to nod and the man caught his chin.

“I want you to answer me when I ask you a question, now.”

“Yes,” said Eames. “I missed you.”

The man inhaled and exhaled slowly, studying him.

“You're so good, Charlie,” he murmured, and that strangled feeling in Eames' throat became a burgeoning in his chest. This was somebody with whom he knew the rules: be good and get rewarded. Do wrong and suffer fit punishment. It was so blessedly simple he could weep. This wasn't somebody who would look for excuses to beat him or attack him. Their last encounter wouldn't have happened like that if he had only been able to keep his fucking head together and his mouth shut.

He was glad to see the man in the white suit. It was impossible, unbelievable, but Eames was happy he was there.

“Close your eyes.”

He did, and the bullet that tore through his skull and yanked him away from that dream was like a benediction.

As soon as he found himself in the seaside apartment, he started tugging at his clothes, fumbling nervously to pull them off. He knew the rules. The man joined him and tossed a bottle of lubricant onto the bed before starting to gracefully shed his own clothing. Dropping onto the bed, Eames slicked a couple of his fingers and reached down to prepare himself. The other man caught him by the wrist, stopping him, and poured some lube over his own fingers. He slipped one, thick and blunt, into Eames without preamble and Eames had to bite his lip and force himself not to move away from the dull scrape of nails when a second finger was added.

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

He was starting to remember the pain, the cramps, the bleeding.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

He knew the rules.

“I want you to fuck me.”

The man unexpectedly shoved him flat on his back on the bed, hitched up both his legs under the knees and thrust into him in one steady push, opening him before he was ready for it, not giving him any time to adjust. Eames bit his tongue and copper-sweet blood filled his mouth, nearly making him gag. He'd almost forgotten this, the brutal girth of him, the stretch and burn of his muscles, how every experience was a test of Eames' endurance, how long he could grit his teeth and sweat through it before he started trying to escape into his mind and ended up blinking out.

“Say it again.”

“I want you to f-fuck me.” His breath hitched and made the word nearly a sob.

“You're so good, Charlie,” the man purred, his stubbled cheek rasping the side of Eames' face. He started to move in Eames and Eames clawed fistfuls of the bedspread, wheezing for breath already. He was ready for this to be over and it had barely started yet.

The man fucked him.

“Spread your legs.”

He did, until the muscles seared.

“You're a fucking slut for me, aren't you?”

“Yes,” he choked.

The man wrapped heavy arms around him, a hot, breathing steel cage. Eames could feel the roll and flex of his every muscle. He was sinking into a rhythm, breath puffing against Eames' neck with every smooth, hard drive of his hips. And though Eames could still barely accommodate him, body stretched around a too-thick cock, he was starting to go numb, beginning to find it easier to just lie there without moving or whimpering. He was doing this and surviving and not blanking out. He concentrated on his breathing, so that the next time the man spoke -- “You like it like this, don't you?” -- he was able to force out, “Yes,” not in a whine or a wail.

He wasn't going to fuck up again. He'd learnt too hard a lesson for that.

But still it felt like a betrayal every time he let the word _yes_ pass his lips.

The man was folding him in half -- his thighs ached -- he could barely breathe, he was being crushed -- and he realized, belatedly, that he was hard, as the man pulled one arm around and wrapped a hand around him. This realization had long ago ceased to bother him, since he knew it was all adrenaline, and not fuelled by any warped parody of pleasure. But the feel of that rough, confident hand on his cock made his entire body jerk and the breath catch in his lungs. He bit back the word _no_ , the instant before it could escape him.

“Don't you like that?”

And he grated out, “ _Yes,_ ” but his whole body screamed and pleaded _stop, stop, stop_.

He twisted his head aside and panted harshly into the coverlet, his eyes screwed shut, torn between the impossible agony of bone-jarring thrusts and the gentling of the hand on his cock. He honestly wasn't sure which was worse. He could feel the stress flooding his brain, panic buttons and flashing red lights, and clamped down on that, refusing to be overwhelmed. He found himself moving his hips, as best he could, into the rhythm the man had picked up, the sooner to bring himself off, and that felt like betrayal, too.

It was over blessedly soon; he came over the man's hand and his own stomach, biting his lip and sucking in heavy breaths he couldn't quite catch. And to his surprise, the other man was coming too, hilting himself inside Eames one last time and spilling himself in him for what felt like an eternity. That was the troubling thing about this man; he lasted too long, came too long; the only thing that didn't take too long was his refractory time, which could be seconds or minutes if Eames was lucky.

He was lucky this time. The man was pulling out -- Eames felt stretched-out, uncomfortably aware of the loss, and unclean -- and leaning away, finally affording Eames the chance to breathe. He just watched while Eames unclenched his muscles and relaxed a little, reminding himself once again that he'd been hurt but had survived. He didn't even think he was bleeding. That was a first. He caught his breath slowly.

His eyes flew open when the man wrapped a hand around his cock, soft and spent, again. He shook his head mutely, frantically.

 _Don't_.

“You can do it,” the other murmured. “Relax. I'm going to make you feel good.”

 _Don't don't don't_ \--

He felt ridiculously vulnerable. He was lying here, on his back, with the man who'd just fucked him, who was bigger and stronger than him, who surely intended to fuck him again, and all these things, Eames was almost used to. It was the hand stroking him, thumb rubbing repeatedly over the oversensitized head of his cock, that drove him out of his mind. He flashed to the way the man had gripped him punishingly tightly with that probe still obscenely buried in his cock, and broke out in a cold sweat, trying to squirm away. He was shaking, not ready for this, and not strong enough to fight back.

He was half hard again already. That hand was persistent. In silence he begged the man, begged _himself_ , before at last resigning himself to it:

He was going to come again. And it was going to hurt.

His breath started to leave him in hissing gasps and when the man slid two fingers inside him again, dragging them over his prostate, he arched off the bed with a strangled keening sound. He clawed futilely at the sheets. That hand was moving faster, deft and precise, and he couldn't escape it, and at last Eames came with a cracked sob.

He was still sobbing when the man moved away, gulping for air, and he didn't care anymore. This man had already claimed every part of Eames' body, piece by piece. He may as well have Eames' tears, too.

“Charlie.” The man wiped off his hands on the sheets and returned, stroking his hair soothingly, pushing damp strands out of his eyes. “It's almost like you didn't enjoy that. You did, didn't you?”

“Yes,” Eames huffed out shakily, an obedient pet.

“You want me to fuck you again, don't you?”

“Yes.” He didn't even have to think about it. He knew what his role here was. “I want you to fuck me.”

That time, he bled.

He was so glad to be out of that other dream, the pain was like coming home.

 

+  
He felt like he'd crossed some terrible boundary. It had been easier to think of this as rape, before, even though he'd been compliant and hadn't resisted, because in spite of that, his mind was still not willing. At least he'd had that.

This had turned into some gross parody of consensual sex. And he didn't even have the energy to feel angry anymore.

Every single time, it was the same: “Do you want me to fuck you?”

And Eames answered, over and over again: “Yes.”

If he didn't, the consequences were brutal. He only did that once; then it was _yes_ every time. There was nothing else to say. He was broken, body and mind. Every response was automatic, almost unconscious. He lived in a sort of constant stupour. All the disgust, anger, self-hatred, hatred for the man in the white suit, had been buried so deep in him that he couldn't even reach it anymore.

He lived in the moment, all his feelings only skin-deep and superficial. When the man stroked his face and told him he'd done good, it felt like a small warmth in his chest. So he kept striving for that, tried to make himself _perfect_. He began to live for those tiny rewards and didn't even realize how pathetic that was. He had nothing else to live for but those moments. And the man noticed, and _would_ reward him; sometimes a kiss on the forehead, a gentle hand on his scalp. Sometimes, he would run a hot bath and sit on the toilet seat and watch Eames soak away all the blood and dried semen and the ache in his muscles, dragging it out till the water was going cold. It had been years now and this was as good as it could possibly get for Eames, and he was aware of this, even when it hurt (and it hurt), even when he still felt like something huge was missing and wasn't sure he could spend another minute doing this.

Months went by. And then Eames was lying on the bed, recouping, and the man was slowly pulling his clothes back on, white suit impeccable as always, and he said, “Tell me about you.”

It wasn't phrased as a question and therefore didn't stimulate an automatic response. Eames just stirred, looking across at him.

“Talk to me about yourself.” Now it was an order, which demanded a response. “Where are you from?”

Eames already had an answer. “Newark, New Jersey.”

“Did you grow up there?”

“Yes.” He knew Charlie inside and out. He was still a forger -- whatever that meant now.

“Where did you go to school?”

“Rutgers.”

“And what were you studying?”

“Art history.”

“Tell me about that.”

Eames started to talk.

As he talked, he began to remember: he _knew_ all of this. He knew art history. Not as well as he knew other things, but it was like holding a possession for the first time in years, something that belonged to him and was all his. And it suddenly felt very important for him to talk about it, every detail of what he knew. He wasn't stalling, because he knew that more sex was inevitable. He talked because when he talked about it, he could almost let himself get wrapped up in that world, so far away now, where he'd once upon a time imitated people _not_ for sex, and he'd watched a painter for several days and memorized the way he walked and talked and looked and then set about learning everything he could about his trade. He remembered Arthur's dark eyes and the look of quickly-stifled surprise and delight in them when Eames drew political parallels between Goya's _The Third of May 1808_ and Picasso's modernist masterpiece _Guernica_. They'd sat on either side of a table outside a café in France and talked art and the normally guarded expression slowly faded from Arthur's face, and Eames had wanted to brush the croissant crumbs off his lower lip.

He talked about his favourite artists (Rembrandt, for the things he told and showed in his paintings, and Monet, for the things he didn't; the work of Kandinsky, on the other hand, he found unnecessarily loud and gaudy, more flamboyant decoration than representative of any of the ideas or emotions the artist tried to convey). He talked about the evolution of culture in art, the art of forging paintings, the imaginary thesis he'd been working on about Chagall as a pioneer of modernism. He talked about Van Gogh and Picasso, Raphael and da Vinci, and his love affair with each.

He talked until his voice was hoarse and cracking and he ran out of things to say. It was more than he'd spoken in years. He felt out of breath and satisfied in a strange, visceral way.

The man, dressed once again in his white suit, had listened in silence with his head slightly tilted, sometimes wandering around the room a little. Now he went into the bathroom. He returned with a glass of water. Eames took it and drank all of it, gratefully, feeling his throat relax.

“New Jersey, huh?” was all the man said, speculatively.

Eames nodded, licking his lips.

“Then why are you talking to me with an English accent?”

The bottom dropped out of Eames' stomach.

He'd fucked up. A fucking toddler wouldn't have made this mistake.

_I am such a fool._

He opened his mouth to apologize, lie, explain, beg if he had to, but the man raised a hand. The words died in Eames' throat. There was ice in his veins.

The man stared at him hard for a long minute. Eames thought his heart might stop.

The words the man finally said were the last he expected to hear.

“Poor Charlie,” he sighed softly. “You have to be a lot of different people, don't you?”

It was the first time anyone had acknowledged that this was any kind of fantasy; that Eames was not solely theirs, that he'd been claimed by other people before they'd arrived and would be again after they were gone. He didn't know what else to do except nod slowly.

“I know.” The man's voice was sympathetic. He stroked a hand through Eames' hair, pushing stray strands off his face. “That's why I want to buy you.”

“Buy me?”

The man was nodding, smiling. “I'd just need another week up above to finalize it. Then I could take you home, Charlie. You'd be mine, nobody else's, ever again. Would you like that?”

The automatic _yes_ was actually on Eames' tongue when another thought pushed itself unbidden into his mind, forceful and angry and almost unfamiliar.

If he was this man's and nobody else's, how would Arthur ever find him and rescue him?

He hesitated for too long. The man straightened up and let his hand drop back down to his side, turning away.

“I'm leaving.”

“Wait. No,” Eames blurted out when he started to walk to the dresser, where the gun was. He could not go back to the hotel. He _knew_ how much he hated it here, but his fear of the hotel was so much worse; he'd rather the certainty of misery than the misery of uncertainty any day. “Yes! I'd like that.” Terror galloped through him -- the man was still walking away, _fuck!_ “I want that. I want you-- Fuck me,” he said, and the words left him in a juddering rush.

The man stopped and half-turned, eyeing him inscrutably. Eames licked his lips again, scooted back and spread his thighs.

“Fuck me. I want you to.”

It was the first time he'd said it without being prompted. The words felt like broken glass in his throat. The man just stood and watched him and didn't move.

“ _Fuck_ me,” Eames pleaded, almost sobbing. “ _Please._ ”

The man crossed the room swiftly; before Eames could move he was being crushed to the bed, the breath squeezed out of his ribcage, knees bracketing his hips. The man kissed him hard enough to hurt, a crush of lips against lips, fumbling with his own belt and trousers and yanking them down just far enough to free his cock. He shoved Eames roughly onto his stomach and thrust in so hard that Eames yelped and he'd gotten what he wanted, so why was he still so terrified?

“You're so good,” the man growled into his neck, and Eames clamped his eyes shut and muffled his groans of pain in the mattress. “Such a good boy for me.”

There was no part of Eames' body that didn't hurt by the time the man saw fit to finish with him. His hips and thighs and arms and wrists were bruised, bite marks covered his shoulders and neck, blood trickled freely down his legs, and he couldn't say if it was tears or sweat making his cheeks so wet. Probably both. His traitorous mind had not let him leave, this time. For once, he wished it had.

The man stroked a hand down his back to the base of his spine. Eames flinched.

He'd served one purpose, at least. He was too wrung out now, mentally and physically, to be scared of going back to the hotel.

“I'll be back soon, Charlie,” the man told him. “Then you'll be mine. Don't worry.”

He was gone. Eames opened his eyes on the floor of the casino. Tilting his head stiffly, he could still see blood staining the inseam of Charlie's denim jeans.

+  
+  
+

Eames' entire dream was a blurred jumble, fleeting sensations of pain and guilt and nausea, nothing like lucid dreaming. But when his eyes snapped open, he felt all of that melt away.

_Jesus Christ._

He had to look around, look at the gun and pen and notepad on the floor, touch his totem over and over again to reassure himself that he was really awake. He knew he was, though. He'd brought something back with him.

What was it Cobb was always saying?

_What is the most resilient parasite?_

_An idea. Resilient ... highly contagious._

It wasn't inception. Not quite. But someone had taken Eames dream-layers-deep and conditioned him to believe that all he had to do to get a positive reaction was ask to be fucked.

 

+  
He started pacing.

He thought of how he felt about Arthur, and surmised that the part of him that lusted for the point man was, indeed, real; he was a human being and he still had a sex drive, that hadn't been taken away from him. But he thought about all the times he'd crawled over Arthur and begged for it, his heart leaping with fear and his mouth bone-dry all the while, wanting it and not wanting it with equal passion. And now it made sense.

He had never wanted Arthur to fuck him. His brain had told him as much, planting triggers like minefields, screaming _back off_ when it got too far and driving him away. He just hadn't listened -- because deep down, some part of him was still terrified that Arthur would get tired of him and walk away if he didn't ask for it.

He fled the room.

In the hall he punched the down button for the elevator, but it was taking too long to get there, so he took the stairs, bounding down them two steps at a time. He reached the second floor and went straight to Arthur's door, knocking on it insistently. Nobody answered. He broke in.

Arthur, too, was obviously having trouble sleeping, but his solution was more elegant than Eames' gun. Eames found him in the bathroom, soaking in the jacuzzi tub, which was full of bubbles, with a glass of wine. Bubble baths were always Arthur's personal, secret cure for insomnia. He looked nearly ready to doze off, too, but his eyes snapped open when Eames appeared in the doorway.

“Eames,” he said sharply, startled.

“I know. Wait. Let me,” said Eames, out of breath, raising his hands placatingly. He crossed the room quickly and dropped to his knees at the side of the tub. “I have to tell you something.”

Arthur eyed him doubtfully. “You should go--”

“ _Wait_ ,” said Eames again. “It's important, okay? Right. Listen.”

Arthur was looking more uncomfortable by the second, but he didn't move to throw Eames out, so Eames took a deep breath and went on:

“I've figured something out. And I know I've been a bastard to you, the past few days, and you don't have to forgive me if you don't want to, but I wanted to tell you anyway. See, I never wanted you to fuck me.”

“I know,” said Arthur quietly, eyes narrowing, sinking back into the water slightly.

“Yes,” said Eames emphatically, “you knew. _You_ knew. I didn't know. And I tried to tell myself, and I even got pretty good at it, but something -- something here, I don't know, maybe just being in a hotel room again, for the first time--” _Or fucking JJ_ , he thought, and forced that thought away, steering himself back to the present, here, now, with Arthur. He took another deep breath. “I _thought_ I wanted that. I thought it because, when I was in that dream, that was the only way I could -- if I -- asked for it. That was the only way I could make things easier. Protect myself. I was just scared, all those times -- thought you'd leave me, or something. So I -- had to.”

There, he'd forced it out. Arthur knew how terribly he'd let himself down, now. Arthur didn't say anything; he just listened, his gaze fixed on Eames' face, his eyes dark and unreadable and intense.

“And I can't let you fuck me,” Eames went on in one breath. “I'm sorry, I'm not ready and I don't think I will be, maybe ever. But I still _want_ you, Arthur. I have since I met you, and that's never changed. It's not _you_ I don't trust. It's _myself_ , because I'm just full of these -- these irrational behaviours, and it's not your fault, I just can't control it--”

“Eames,” said Arthur softly, cutting off his babbling.

“And I _love_ you,” Eames said, gripping the side of the tub. “And I want another go at this. If you'll let me. Because I don't know what I can and can't do, Arthur, and I thought, well, if I have to learn all that, why don't I let you learn with me? How else will we know?”

“Eames.”

“You can say no. I know, it's an awful lot of baggage, and it isn't fair to make you shoulder it, but I just keep thinking how unfair it is that I want so badly to have sex with you, and I can't, because of what other people did, and if I don't start making new, better memories with you, I don't know that I ever will, because you're the only person I want. Arthur--”

He was out of breath. Arthur just studied him intently for a long moment. It had seemed very important to blurt all of this out before Arthur had the chance to stop him or tell him to leave, but now, in the silence that followed his declaration, he was starting to feel foolish.

“I'll go,” he said finally, sheepish, “if you want--”

“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur said, and he was shifting around, reaching with a dripping hand for Eames' face, and their lips connected over the edge of the tub, both of them leaning into it. Arthur's other hand came up to his face, wet and firm, cradling him, and Eames licked his mouth open in a dizzying headlong rush, loving the way Arthur kissed him, like he'd never been gone at all.

Arthur's hands were at his shirt, tugging, and before Eames knew it he was clambering, sliding clumsily into the bathtub with a splash to kneel over him. The water sloshed violently up the sides of the tub and spilled onto the floor and Eames didn't care, didn't care that he was fully clothed and soaked now, because he was kissing Arthur and it was glorious.

“Eames,” Arthur breathed against his lips when they paused for breath, fingers curling into the front of Eames' shirt, “why didn't you ever just ask to fuck _me?_ ”

Such a simple solution, it took his breath away. Eames could hardly believe it. It was surely too good to be true.

But when he looked down into Arthur's blown pupils, tiny reflections of himself in each, he found himself nodding stupidly.

“Let's try that,” he managed to whisper hoarsely.

Then they were kissing again, Arthur's mouth yielding easily under his tongue, and he chased away the taste of white wine and searched for that flavour that was _Arthur_. With his hands he touched Arthur's face, his hair, utterly intoxicated by him, and felt he could have quite happily spent the rest of his life just kissing him like this.

It was at least five minutes before Arthur started squirming under his hips, murmuring something against his mouth. It took Eames a few seconds to notice.

“What?”

“--the bed, Eames, we can't do this in the bath--”

“Oh,” said Eames foolishly, “right.”

He stopped and pulled back with an effort, and if he'd thought Arthur was adorable when he was annoyed, it was nothing on Arthur when he looked like this, soggy and mussed and flushed, licking his swollen lips. Eames caught his chin gently and pressed one last kiss to his lips, then sat back.

“Now you may leave the tub.”

“Not with you sitting on me,” Arthur said, giving him a shove. Eames grinned and got up, water spilling off him noisily. His shirt and jeans clung to him wetly as he stepped out of the tub.

“These shoes are definitely ruined,” he remarked ruefully, feeling the unpleasant squish of them under his heel. Arthur held out his hand for a towel and Eames gave it to him, arching an eyebrow. “Modesty, darling? After bathtub make-outs?”

Arthur snorted and got up, dragging the towel over his head to get rid of the dampness of his hair, leaving him looking even more deliciously rumpled than he had before. The rest of his body only got a customary swipe of the towel, just to take off most of the moisture, and Arthur wasn't careful about how he positioned it. Eames took him in, fully, eyes falling of their own accord from Arthur's chest to his slim waist, finally to his cock -- already half hard. Eames' mouth went dry and it struck him: he was going to do this with another man.

But when Arthur climbed gracefully out of the tub and kissed him again, he melted into it needily and let the point man chase all his reservations out of his head with a skillful tongue. He dragged both his hands through Arthur's hair, leaving it a damp, tousled mess all over again.

“Come on,” said Arthur, wrapping the towel around his waist -- probably for Eames' sake more than his own -- and backed out of the bathroom. Eames hastily slipped off his wet shoes and socks and followed him, entranced by the straight lines of Arthur's body and the calm expression on his face and his easy confidence. Eames followed him almost to the bed, but stopped short.

“I -- I don't have condoms or lube,” he stammered.

For the first time Arthur let consternation flit over his features.

“Are you--”

“Clean, I'm clean, I tested twice,” Eames told him hurriedly, needing Arthur to know this, because the dreamscape was where he'd been tormented, but he had still spent four months unconscious in the real world, held captive by people who thought it perfectly acceptable to whore him out and stick needles in him, and he couldn't know what had been done to his real, physical body, if anything.

“Okay.” Arthur seemed to think for a moment, then he vanished back into the bathroom. Eames heard the clatter of plastic bottles and when Arthur re-emerged, he tossed one at Eames. “Complimentary lotion. That should do it.”

“You're amazing,” said Eames, when he managed to stop gaping. The corner of Arthur's mouth pulled up wryly.

“It's been said before.”

He settled back onto the bed, the towel loosening slightly around his hips. Eames crawled onto the bed, too, stopping about a foot away. Arthur leaned over, and Eames thought that they were going to kiss again, but Arthur slipped away from his lips and pressed a kiss to his earlobe instead.

“This is the part where you take off your clothes, too.”

“Right,” said Eames thickly. He hesitated, then started to work at the buttons of his shirt. Arthur didn't help him, just watched, until Eames was sitting in his boxers and the rest of his clothes were making the carpet wet, instead of the bed.

He had to stop again, taking deep breaths. It shouldn't have been a big deal. Arthur had seen him in nothing but his boxers nearly every night for the past ten months. But for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to take them off. His own shyness was embarrassing and dumbfounding, because he _knew_ it wasn't a big deal, and in fact Arthur had seen him naked before, right after rescuing him; he'd had to help Eames bathe, and Eames had been far beyond caring, then. Plus he'd never been one for modesty, anyway.

But now the thought of Arthur's eyes on his body made him feel weirdly -- ashamed.

“Are you okay?” Arthur asked.

“I'm,” Eames said quietly, staring down at himself, a thumb hooked uncertainly under the waistband of the boxers. He couldn't think what to say.

“We can stop. You just have to tell me. I won't push you.”

“No,” said Eames, shaking his head, “I'm just--”

Arthur turned away from him. He crawled up the bed, reached up and switched off the lamp that hung from the wall. Then he moved to the other side of the bed and switched that lamp off, too.

The room was suddenly dark. There was only the glow of the city around the curtains over the window, and the light neither of them had turned off in the bathroom, giving them just enough to see each other by.

“Better?” Arthur asked, returning.

In response Eames kissed him breathlessly. Arthur hummed contentedly and Eames gripped him tighter, not wanting to ever let him go. He started to push Arthur down, but the point man wriggled adroitly out of his grasp anyway and pulled the covers over himself. Eames followed him blindly, needing the warmth of him. Almost as an afterthought, he took off the boxers and cast them aside. He was still slightly glad for the towel that separated them, but at the same time, starting to crave more.

They had to stop again, when they were kissing, and Arthur reached up to run a hand through Eames' hair, his fingers tightening slightly. Eames shook himself out of Arthur's grip at once, rearing back, and Arthur seemed to understand at once, because he didn't do that again, just waited for Eames to eventually sink back down into the kiss, wary. Neither of them apologized. Eames could tell that Arthur was mentally caching the knowledge, silently making a catalogue of things Eames didn't like.

It happened again when Arthur started to reach down between them like he couldn't quite help himself, and a chill shot down Eames' spine. He broke away and struck Arthur's hand aside. Hard.

There was a silence, Eames sitting up and Arthur still lying there, dishevelled, and the only sound to be heard was their breathing, Eames' much harsher and louder.

“Don't,” he said finally, the blood pounding in his ears.

He expected Arthur to pull away, call it off, tell Eames he obviously wasn't ready. Instead, Arthur raised both his hands disarmingly where he could see them. Then he arched off the bed, slid his hands below his back, and settled back down, pinning his own arms.

In the dim light Eames could see the way Arthur raised an eyebrow at him in a silent query: a self-superior sort of, _Well?_

That was the moment Eames committed to doing this. He sank back down to recapture Arthur's lips, because he couldn't possibly _not_ , and the point man hummed again, as though amused. When he'd worked up his confidence again, he tugged at the towel -- Arthur shimmied his hips a little without freeing his hands -- and worked it free, tossing it away. There. Now there was nothing between them but the air under the covers.

“Can I--?” Eames asked, and Arthur just nodded, eyes half-closed lazily. Eames reached down, wrapped a hand around him and squeezed, careful and slow, and felt the breath that Arthur huffed out against his face.

He experienced a moment of surreality because he couldn't believe this was happening -- that beautiful, brilliant, trusting Arthur was lying here, pinning his own arms behind his back, making himself vulnerable, letting Eames do this to him.

“I love you,” said Eames hoarsely, thinking already that he'd said it enough, but he couldn't seem to contain it. Arthur's breath huffed against his face again, a short laugh.

“Prove it,” he said.

It was a wry challenge. Eames could _hear_ him smiling. So Eames kissed him again, hard, and tightened his grip just a little and twisted his thumb, and Arthur groaned into his mouth. And that, along with his previous thought, was enough to open the floodgates and send all the blood rushing to his groin. Yes. Maybe he could do this, after all. He wanted it too badly not to at least try.

“Lotion,” Arthur gasped out.

Eames sat back, rooted around in the sheets until he found it. He poured some out over his hand and, not giving himself time to think about it, slicked his cock in a couple of swift, jerky pulls. He hadn't touched himself in over a year, since before his capture, and had to bite his lip. It felt, somehow, like ill-gotten pleasure. He would have to adjust to that. For the time being, though, he decided that was good enough and leaned over Arthur.

His hand faltered. How was he supposed to do this without it hurting? It had always hurt when it was done to him.

Arthur sighed, reading his mind once again, and freed one of his hands. He took Eames by the wrist, delicately, and hiked both his knees up, planting his heels in the mattress.

“That's it,” he breathed, guiding Eames' hand between his thighs. Eames let him take over, gladly, and when his hand found Arthur's opening, he pushed a finger in slowly, not allowing himself to think about it.

Arthur's hand trembled and he let out a shaky breath. Eames froze.

“Keep going,” Arthur urged him.

Cautiously, he pushed his finger deeper and stroked. Arthur was tight, and Eames was caught between a hot coil of lust in his belly that had everything to do with the way Arthur's body gripped him, and a wariness at the intimacy of the motions, because he couldn't stop putting himself in Arthur's place. He frowned.

“You're thinking too much.” Arthur's voice was husky, wonderfully so. “Add another.”

Eames almost thought he'd misunderstood. Tentatively, he pressed a second finger in alongside the first, and his gaze snapped automatically to Arthur's face to gauge his reaction. Arthur had let his head fall back onto the pillows, his eyes half closed again, lips parted. He tightened his grip on Eames' wrist and made him push in, even deeper now, again and once more until Eames understood the rhythm Arthur wanted him to set and kept going even when Arthur took his hand away. In the dark it was too hard to read the point man's face, even for Eames, but he needed no translation when Arthur started to push back against him with a little twist of his hips, fucking himself on Eames' fingers, and _groaned_.

Electricity skittered all the way down Eames' spine. Suddenly he knew beyond a doubt that he could do this. He took some more time to stretch Arthur open and then took his hand away, near trembling with want.

“Can I?”

“If you don't, I might just kill you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur warned darkly.

Eames grinned and crawled back up his body. He'd done this in the dream, too -- had women requesting movie stars; men seeking a dom. But all of that, at long last, had been burned right out of his mind by the heat of Arthur's skin against his. _This_ was not comparable to _that_. _This_ was something else entirely. The relief, when the backdrop of memories faded to be replaced by the intensity of Arthur's stare, was amazing. He eased his way into Arthur's body, and managed to let himself go for the first time in ten months.

 

+  
Later, Eames wouldn't remember it as being perfect. It wasn't _entirely_ awkward, either (though it was, a little), and it wasn't bad by any stretch of the imagination. It wasn't perfect, though, nor was it magic; it did not ease all his hurts and make everything better, just like that, because that was the kind of thing that only happened in storybooks.

It certainly helped, though.

Mostly he would try not to remember the clumsiness on his part, the struggle to find a good rhythm, and the stutter of his faltering hips every time he had to make certain and ask compulsively, _Am I hurting you?; Is this okay?_ , even though Arthur had a white-knuckled grip on the bedsheets to keep himself from touching Eames and just kept repeating, _Yes yes yes, it's fine,_ Eames--

He would remember burying his face in the long slope of Arthur's bare neck and inhaling, the scent of soap and bubble bath and sweat and the intoxicating smell of _him_ all mingling and giving Eames a powerful high, like a drug rush. Arthur's lazy smile when Eames kissed him again, mumbling nonsensical endearments against his lips, and the way his expression twisted involuntarily when Eames angled his hips just right. The sounds he made, little hisses and moans and gasps. When he slipped a hand between them to wrap a fist around his cock and Eames, embarrassed that he'd nearly forgotten, placed his hand over Arthur's and set a pace for him, mouthing at his neck and breathing _That's it, darling, that's it, I've got you, I've got you, come for me_ \--

And Arthur did, and Eames fucked him through it steadily, kissing his fluttering eyelids, and followed not a minute later--

That was what he hung onto, the first new memory of his fresh start, and it was a good one.

 

+  
When they lay on their sides afterward, their faces just brushing, catching their breath together, Arthur said abruptly, “I don't like elevators.”

“What?” said Eames, his brain far too fuzzy to make any sense of that. Arthur was breathless.

“You said you feel like you don't know the first thing about me. Well. I don't like elevators. They scare me, a little. I've never told anyone before. Only you.”

“Elevators,” Eames echoed.

“Yes.”

“Elevators,” Eames said again, and he started laughing, pressing his lips blindly to Arthur's face.

“It's not funny,” Arthur said, but he was starting to grin, too. Eames just cupped his cheek in one hand and kissed him, laughing like he just might never stop.

 

+  
Later, when they were both nearly asleep, insomnia chased far away for the time being, Eames had an arm wrapped around Arthur's chest and he nosed under Arthur's ear, sighing softly.

“We can't let Ari do this job, Arthur,” he whispered.

Arthur shifted, all the tension gone from his wiry frame, for now.

“I know,” he mumbled, exhausted, resigned. “I know.”


	3. Chapter 3

Eames was woken gradually by a faint, tinny ringing. He growled and pushed his face deeper into the pillow, trying to shut it out.

Eventually, when the ringing didn't stop, Eames heard a creak and rustle of bedcovers and felt the mattress lighten at his side.

“What is it, Cobb?”

Opening one eye, Eames turned his head and blearily saw Arthur struggling into a pair of trousers, cradling his cell phone between his ear and shoulder. He caught Eames' eye and mouthed, _Morning_ , and then, into the phone, “Uh-huh.”

Eames wondered vaguely where his totem was.

Probably in his pants, he concluded. Which were definitely on the floor.

Actually, he thought, settling back into the soft bed like a spoiled, indolent house cat, if this was a dream, he didn't want to wake up from it.

Arthur's cell phone snapped shut. “That was Cobb. He expects us both at the loft today to work on the revised plan.”

“Mmhm.” Eames rolled over lazily, stretched. “No good-morning kiss?”

“After I brush my teeth, maybe,” Arthur replied. “And after you brush yours. But preferably before you have any coffee or cigarettes.”

Eames threw a pillow at him. “Sure you can pencil that in, Arthur, you romantic devil, you?”

Arthur just smiled, that particular smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle, and made Eames love him all over again.

They showered -- one after the other, which seemed safer, and Eames guiltily hoped Arthur wouldn't fault him for locking the bathroom door, since it was just a paranoid ritual and not anything personal -- and Arthur fetched Eames' possessions from his room on the seventh floor so that he could find something to wear that wasn't still slightly soggy or custom-fitted to Arthur.

“You took the stairs, didn't you?” Eames grinned wolfishly when he returned, sitting on the bed in a towel. Arthur pursed his lips.

“Eames, you're going to make me regret sharing with you.”

“Don't be that way. I love learning about you. This is why your hotel rooms are always on the second floor, isn't it, to minimize your elevator exposure?”

Arthur seemed to take a couple seconds to figure out whether Eames was genuinely making fun of him or not, then relented, “There's also, 'Oh, it's taking too long to get here, let's just take the stairs, it's only one flight.'”

“Fucking adorable,” Eames murmured, pulling him down into a kiss.

Arthur was flushed when he pulled away, and straightened out his shirt self-consciously. He was quiet for a moment.

“What is it?”

“I'm trying to think of something else I can tell you,” said Arthur. His brow furrowed. “I'm allergic to dogs.”

“Arthur, you're going to turn me on if you get any more scandalous than this,” Eames teased him. “That's almost as racy as my being allergic to cats.”

Arthur frowned. “I like cats.”

“I like dogs. There goes any of the pets we might have had.” Eames pulled him by the tie into another kiss and purred, “It's like we're fucking star-crossed, darling.”

Arthur just smiled again. Then his expression became suddenly serious.

“I don't give head.”

“Okay,” said Eames, surprised at his sudden candidness.

“I just ... the idea ...” Arthur struggled for words, so Eames quickly nodded understanding, letting him lapse into relieved silence. He didn't really have to verbalize -- it was difficult to imagine prim, fastidious, strait-laced Arthur letting himself go enough to do something like get on his knees and suck cock -- although once the image was in Eames' head, it was very difficult to get out.

“Just as well I won't let you touch me, then,” he said, easing Arthur's discomfort. “See? Star-crossed.”

“Get dressed, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said, and Eames didn't even care about the briskness in his tone. Arthur had _shared_. He was so proud he could burst.

 

+  
He had to borrow a pair of Arthur's shoes (and then he had to ask why Arthur had two pairs of shoes on him anyway and Arthur just sighed like he couldn't believe Eames was so embarrassing as to suggest that one pair alone would be appropriate in all situations that might come up on a job) and they meandered to the apartment building in no great rush. By the time they reached the loft, it was curiously empty, apart from the unconscious Ford at the far end of the room. Arthur picked up a note off the nearest desk and held it up.

_Gone to get breakfast. —Cobb_

“No Ari, either,” Arthur mused aloud. “Though if she's got any sense she'll have skipped town back to Paris. Honestly ...” He turned, and saw the gaze Eames had fixed on him. “What?”

“Kiss me,” said Eames.

Arthur gave him a shrewd look that Eames couldn't decipher, but it didn't matter, because then Arthur was closing the distance between them and claiming Eames' lips, and Eames would definitely never get tired of this. It felt like freedom, every time their lips met. They backed up, toward the corner, Arthur's hand cupping his cheek, and Eames wasn't even aware that they were moving until his back bumped the wall.

He stiffened. Arthur quickly pulled back, knowing the problem instinctively, his other hand caught in Eames' shirt so that he tugged the forger with him, away from the confines of the wall, but Eames stopped to catch his breath for a moment and hated that he couldn't read the look in Arthur's eyes. Reading people was what he did, but Arthur was always a blank slate. They were momentarily frozen.

“By all means,” JJ's dry tones drifted over to them from the open doorway where he stood, “don't stop on my account.”

For an instant the scene seemed to change -- not seeing him, Eames heard that fucking _voice_ , felt Arthur's hands on him, not slim and precise but broad and powerful hands, hurting hands, and he felt the wall at his back, as oppressing as a mattress or the floor. He reacted impulsively, and shoved Arthur away so hard that the point man hit one of the tables with a hard thud and nearly fell over backwards.

JJ raised his eyebrows.

“Didn't mean to startle you,” he said, and started walking across the loft to the whiteboard, carelessly shrugging out of his coat.

Arthur hadn't moved, still sprawled against the edge of the table, and was staring hard at Eames. Eames felt shaken and flustered, blood itching in his veins. He could still see the faint bruise he'd left on Arthur's jaw from the other night.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“Okay,” said Arthur, picking himself up cautiously. He looked wary, almost like he thought Eames might attack him again. And suddenly, irrationally, Eames was angry with him. They were still so far from _okay._

 _Turn around_ , he wanted to snarl, grab Arthur by the shoulders and shake him and twist him round. _Don't you see him? Open your fucking eyes. Can't you see what he is?_

Instead, he growled, “Stop looking at me like that,” and stormed out the door.

He had no qualms leaving Arthur alone with JJ. Arthur was a much stronger person than him. Arthur would never let another man bully or brutalize him, and would never understand why Eames behaved as irrationally as he did.

He didn't go far -- just paced up and down the block a few times, smoking furiously and thinking. He thought, fleetingly, of killing JJ. But it didn't seem fair when he wasn't a hundred percent certain -- and Eames saw potential triggers everywhere he looked -- and, besides. He might have enjoyed blowing things up indiscriminately in dreams, but in reality, Eames was not much of a killer. He was, as he'd once told Arthur long ago (and been met with a dismissive roll of the eyes) more of a lover than a fighter.

And anyway, how could he justify a murder when the crime he was accusing the man of had not, technically, even taken place? No court in the world would convict a man based on bad dreams.

He wasn't antagonizing Eames, anyway. He wasn't being aggressive or overtly forward. He'd barely spoken a word to Eames, actually, since he was working in closer contact with Arthur and Cobb. He didn't seem interested in Eames at all. All Eames had to do was tough it out, tolerate him and get this job over it. As long as he kept his head together during the actual job, and didn't think of Charlie, or let his projections in...

He caught himself standing stock-still, rubbing his totem. None of the people on the street even took any notice of them; they just drifted around him. _Ah, New Yorkers._

He forced himself to get it together and returned to the warehouse with a newly-purchased copy of _The Times_ tucked under his arm. Ariadne and Cobb had made an appearance, along with pastries and coffee. Arthur was sitting at his desk and reading a file. He didn't look up when Eames walked in. Eames grabbed a cup and a danish, flopped into the chair at his own desk, thumbed the paper open to the crossword puzzle and picked up a pen.

That was the extent of work he got done, while the others all converged and discussed how the plan was to change with Ariadne as the bait, since she had never had to distract a mark before or even had more than minimal contact with one, as she normally stayed out of the dreams. At least, that was all he did until Ariadne approached and asked him for some help in the dreamspace. He resignedly left his desk and hooked himself up with her.

“What did you want help with?” he asked, once they found themselves standing in a typical gym she'd fashioned from nothing.

“Anything you can think of,” she said. “I've made some shortcuts, hidden escape routes ... what else should I cover?”

“Arthur will give you some weapons training,” he said. “You shouldn't go unarmed once you're under with Ford. He's obviously shown that even his projections are interested in you.”

Ariadne nodded, flushing. “What else? What would you have done?”

Eames had no desire to tell her that he wouldn't have cared if he'd had to pull Ford into the alley behind the gym and suck him off, if it distracted him long enough for Cobb to find anything important, because he valued his own body far less heavily than he did hers in the dreamscape. So he said, “All you need to do is stall him. Just be your natural, charming self, Ari. You don't have to do anything unsafe. Hopefully, you won't even have to leave the gym.”

“What if his projections attack me, or something?” she asked, looking nervous for the first time.

“They won't.” _Hopefully_ , he added silently. “They don't see you as an invasion or a threat. You've just roused their interest, is all. And besides, I'll be here with you the whole time.”

“You will?”

He nodded, affecting wide-eyed indignation. “What, did you really think we'd leave you alone with him?”

She allowed herself a small smile.

“I'll be standing right nearby to step in if you need me, or if you want to tag out and leave. Don't be afraid to.”

“Could you really?” Ariadne asked. She was half apprehensive, half fascinated, and he got the sense that she'd been waiting to ask this question. “Forge me?”

“Absolutely,” he said, and then he was her, a mirror image, down to the clothing. “You would be surprised at how people you know are generally the hardest to forge. The easiest forgery is somebody the mark knows, because you're allowed to leave small imperfections; their subconscious will fill in the blanks for you. But I'd call this passable, wouldn't you?”

Ariadne looked quite astonished to be hearing this in her own voice. She blinked, momentarily gaping.

“Do I really sound like that?” she managed to say at last, and Eames chuckled, shedding the disguise.

“Of course, I don't do it often to my teammates. Doesn't seem respectful. Still, for the purposes of the job, I'd far rather put myself in Ford's crosshairs than leave you to it, no matter how safe we make this.”

“How do you do it?” Ariadne asked, her eyes searching him intensely. “I've tried to. I can create all kinds of illusions, I mastered Escher's waterfall in an hour. But I can't change my appearance at all. Arthur and Cobb are the best dreamers in the business and they can't do it. You're the best in the world. So how do you?”

Eames had to laugh again. “You remind me of Arthur. He used to get so frustrated that he could never learn to forge. But it's not something you learn.”

“No?”

“No. Forging is an art that requires a certain amount of self-actualization. You can't be taught that.”

She silently framed the word with her lips, considering it.

“Self-awareness, self-enlightenment, almost,” he said. “An embracing of reality and, at the same time, an ability to see past the truth. It's an attachment to the present moment and an awareness of your true self. You can't do it because you've been taught to control the dreams, like they're something to be tamed. Arthur, too. Forging is far more subtle than that.”

“Then how come you could always do it?” Ariadne asked, hesitantly, and Eames knew what she meant.

“You mean, how could I forge when I forgot who my true self was,” he said.

She nodded, almost shyly.

“I don't know,” Eames confessed. “I suppose because I was so dissociated. Maybe that's all it takes, as well. A constant splitting of the mind. I had to be somebody.”

He was glad that she didn't push the topic after that. They ran through a couple of plans, a couple back-up plans, and she let him tinker with her architecture. When it was nearly time for the timer to run out, she said, “Do you want me to back off for awhile? See if your projection shows up?”

Eames thought about it and shook his head slowly. “No,” he said quietly. “I don't think I'll be having too much trouble with that projection on this run.”

Afterward, when he'd returned to his desk and crossword puzzle, Cobb and Arthur took Ariadne under to give her some lessons in defending herself in a dream, leaving Eames and JJ the only two conscious parties in the room for fifteen tense minutes. They both stayed at their desks, and the only sound to be heard was the scratching of JJ's pen on his paper. He didn't look up once. Eames sat there without moving, his forehead covered in a fine sheen of sweat, his brain locked up firmly and refusing to register any of the crossword hints. By the time the others were awake again, he was full of doubts, and he didn't like that feeling.

 

+  
Arthur finally approached him at the end of the day, PASIV case in hand, after he left the building.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Eames said. “It was me.” He faltered. “Sorry for shoving you.”

Arthur relaxed at once, shrugging it off easily. He cast a sidelong glance at Eames while they walked, the corners of his eyes crinkled.

“JJ complained to Cobb. He thinks we should be showing a little more professionalism considering we're on McAvoy's time and dollar.”

“Mmm. And what did Cobb say to you?”

“Cobb said he's very glad that we're good again and he doesn't care if we shag on his desk, just so long as we pull ourselves together long enough to do this job.”

“What a good boss,” said Eames, beaming.

“Then he looked a little concerned and expressly asked that we don't actually fuck on his desk,” Arthur finished. Eames sighed.

“Cobb is such a dad.”

Arthur nodded agreement, smiling, and said nothing.

Impulsively, Eames blurted out, “I don't like JJ.”

Arthur frowned, his eyebrows drawing together. “Me neither.”

If it was possible, Eames loved him even more.

“I don't think he's a fool, though,” Arthur added. “Even if Cobb wasn't too impressed with Ford's security, it's pretty heavy. They're not militarized, but that just meant they'd rather resort to brutal means of ripping us apart than straight-out shooting us. We had to shoot ourselves, in the end, when they caught up, and it took them about an hour, but we were still on the move almost the whole time. JJ was right to call us, there's no way he could have done the whole job alone.”

He fell silent, and Eames could almost hear him thinking.

“I really should just kill Ford,” he muttered under his breath, staring down at the sidewalk and avoiding other pedestrians warily. “The way those projections honed in on Ariadne... Why does he even have subcon security anyway, you know? Who does that, except somebody with a huge secret?” He heaved a heavy sigh. “Or someone paranoid with bipolar disorder and a dead girlfriend, and no actual training at all.”

Eames wished he could agree, but he'd read the case reports inside and out. He wanted to see Ford dead. He just didn't want to see Arthur do it.

“I wished we'd never taken Ari under with us,” Arthur said.

“Me, too,” said Eames.

“We could never convince her to sit this one out, though.”

“No,” Eames agreed. Now he was almost certain Arthur was thinking the same thing he was.

Arthur didn't seem to want to discuss it, though, because the next thing he said, with another sigh, was, “Indian takeaway for dinner?”

“I was actually thinking of a little Mexican place in the Village. Maybe a little jaunt to Times Square afterward.” Eames slipped a hand into Arthur's and smiled. “Let me show you my New York, Arthur. Please.”

Arthur swept a glance around at the street their work building was on, full of brick apartments and rusting fire escapes and a heavily graffitied garage or two. He looked back at Eames doubtfully.

“Please,” Eames repeated.

Arthur was somebody who appreciated fine arts and cuisine, but even then he only indulged when he was in the mood for it, and never on a job. He wasn't a social being -- a night in was always favoured over a night spent in the company of a crowd -- and he looked as though dining in Greenwich Village at a Mexican place was possibly the worst idea he'd heard in his life.

But he consented. Eames was thrilled. It meant that maybe, he was changing Arthur, too; getting him to open up a little, something Eames had been striving for for a very long time.

He didn't even think Arthur hated it, by the time they got back to the hotel and Eames officially checked out of his own room and moved into Arthur's; but when they got into bed Eames curled up on his own side and didn't initiate a thing, because Times Square just hadn't held its usual glamour for him. There were too many people crowded around and he'd seen JJ in all of them, and neither of them could be expected to change overnight, after all. Arthur just kissed him and gave up without a word.

 

+  
They spent one more day preparing. Cobb, Arthur and Ariadne were under for half an hour while Eames worked on his crossword and JJ made little notes on the whiteboard.

Apropos of nothing, the other man said, “I didn't think they sold _The New York Times_ in England.”

Startled, Eames bit down on the pen he was contemplatively chewing and nearly caught his tongue in his teeth. He withdrew the pen slowly, determined not to look up.

“Hence reading it,” he said, in a very measured tone, “in New York.”

“I mean that you seem to be pretty into it. You've been here, how many days now? And you've spent every day sitting there and reading the newspaper.”

Eames hated him. Hated him so much for even _daring_ to talk to him. Managed to hate him even more, somehow, for this slight.

“I'll worry about doing my job,” he said quietly. “You worry about doing yours.”

JJ walked over. Eames swallowed hard and stared down at the crossword as the man came up to him and circled around him, like a predatory shark. His proximity scalded Eames' back.

“The crossword,” JJ remarked, right behind him. “Are you good at it?”

That bristling, burning itch was sparking through his veins again. The smothered fight-flight instinct, wanting to burst right out of his chest. Eames unstuck his throat.

“I can usually finish Saturday's.”

“' _Lovers in Moonlight_ surrealist',” JJ read over his shoulder. He leaned over. The sharp scent of his cologne made Eames go rigid in his seat as JJ touched the tip of his finger to the blank space on the paper and gently trailed it across, spelling aloud slowly and softly, “C-H-A-G-A-L-L.”

Eames didn't say anything.

JJ straightened up.

“Well,” he said. “I'll let you get back to work.”

He was walking, he was walking away and all Eames could think, faintly, was the same thing he'd told himself after every single torment the man of his nightmares had exacted on him: _I survived._

JJ took a seat at his own desk.

“I always thought of Chagall as more of a modernist,” he said, without looking at Eames.

Suddenly, Eames had no desire to continue working on the crossword.

 

+  
He was quiet for the rest of the day.

“Everything alright with you?” Arthur asked, climbing into bed next to him and switching off the lamp nearest him. “You've just been getting quieter since ... the other night.”

“No. It's nothing,” Eames hastened to assure him. “I just--” He let out a slow breath. “I'll be glad when this job is over.”

“Me too. You have no idea.” Arthur shoved his pillow into place with particular violence. “Ariadne is hell-bent on doing this.”

“Mm,” Eames said non-committally.

There was a moment's silence, and they both seemed to anticipate what the other was going to say, because Arthur started, “Eames--”

“I can forge her. Ford's subconscious would never know the difference. She wouldn't even have to be near him.”

“That's not -- I just--” Arthur stopped, his eyes squeezing shut for a minute. “It's just,” he finally continued, “we lost Mal to dreaming. We almost lost Cobb. And I almost lost you.” He took a deep breath. “If something were to happen to Ariadne on a job ...”

“I know,” said Eames. “I know how hard it is to come back from.”

“It's going to be a simple run. I know this. There's just this voice in the back of my head that keeps saying something is going to go wrong. What were we even thinking, bringing her? We're poking around in the head of an accused serial rapist, for God's sake.”

“She's a big girl,” Eames reminded him. “But I know what you mean.”

He heard Arthur swallow. Then the point man rolled over, and even in the dark Eames could see the desperation in his eyes.

“I don't want you to do this,” he said. “I didn't before, and I still don't. But I think maybe you can.”

“I know I can.”

“Just keep her safe, Eames,” said Arthur. “Just -- keep her safe, however you can.”

“I will,” Eames promised him. “I will.”

 

+  
They cleaned out the loft and wiped their fingerprints from every surface, and went under together after night fell.

The architecture was a blend of Cobb and Ariadne's joined efforts. The main setting would be the street Ford lived on and where his gym also happened to be, a block away. The streets looped back on themselves and there were shortcuts and safe rooms. Arthur, as the dreamer, would be keeping out of the way, hopefully where no security would find him, while Cobb and JJ would be doing the extracting. Ariadne and Eames waited at the gym.

Cobb's voice crackled from a tiny earpiece in both their ears: “ _He just left the building. He's on his way._ ”

“Cheers,” Eames answered him through the equally tiny, inconspicuous mouthpiece attached to his collar. To Ariadne, he said, “That gives us about two minutes.”

He'd crafted himself a rather buff-looking American, the sort one would expect to find in a gym in New York. Ariadne shivered, hovering in his shadow and stealing glances at all the projections, who would, unsettlingly, steal glances back at her every now and then.

“It's all surprisingly ... _normal_ ,” she whispered. “Except for all of them staring at me, I mean. I expected more ... you know ...”

“ _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_?” Eames inquired. “I would think it's standard fare, though. Your typical sociopath isn't like in the movies. Consider our friend Ford. He's an unemployed bum who can't hold down a job and he spends all day shut up in his apartment, probably binge-drinking, except to go to the gym. If he is our man, he wasn't smart enough to hide any of the bodies. He's not exactly Hannibal Lecter, is he?”

“So you're saying it's not necessarily a point in his favour,” said Ariadne.

“No, not necessarily. Killers and rapists come from all walks of life -- and all kinds of minds.” He fell silent, thinking of the relative silence and tranquility of JJ's dreamspace. How peaceful a backdrop it had been to the violence.

“There he is,” Ariadne said suddenly.

Ford had just walked in, wearing track pants and a sleeveless shirt. He headed for the treadmills.

“He's arrived at the gym, get moving,” Eames radioed Cobb. “Let him get settled,” he said to Ariadne. “Give it ten minutes or so.”

He crossed the floor of the gym, winding his way around the bench presses, and claimed the treadmill next to Ford's. Ford was idly thumbing through his iPod. He eventually put his earbuds in and set the treadmill to a jogging speed. Eames did the same.

Ten minutes had nearly passed when Ariadne appeared at Ford's side.

“Hey,” she said, “are you gonna be done in a minute?”

Ford glanced down at the row of occupied treadmills, cast Ariadne half a glance, and shook his head, his breath huffing steadily.

She was undeterred. Raising her voice so that he could hear her over his music, she said, “Do you like your iPod?”

“What?”

“Your iPod. I've been thinking of upgrading mine and I wanted to know what you think of that model. Sorry,” she said, blushing and smiling prettily, playing it coy, “I just couldn't help but notice. I was watching you from over there.”

 _Ariadne, you minx_ , Eames thought, impressed.

Now Ford took notice of her. So did half the projections in the vicinity. Ariadne didn't waver, didn't acknowledge them, and in a few seconds they all began to turn away again, except for Ford.

He hit a button on the panel of the treadmill that made it decelerate to a slow halt, and pulled out both earbuds.

“What did you say your name was?”

“I didn't,” said Ariadne. “It's Katy.”

“Katy,” he said, starting to smile. “I'm Joe.”

He reached out and shook her hand. She didn't falter. Eames was proud of her.

“Here.” Ford was handing over the iPod. “Why don't you see how she handles?”

“Thanks.” Ariadne started playing with it, scrolling through playlists. “Oh, I love your taste in music,” she gushed. “These are some of my favourite bands.”

Ford was grinning, obviously enchanted, by the time she handed it back to him. He stuffed the iPod back into his pocket, stepped off the treadmill, and said, “It's all yours. Will I see you here tomorrow? Same time?”

“Sure -- but--”

“See you then,” Ford said, and then he was leaving, and Ariadne was too startled to come up with an argument. Eames hopped off the treadmill and pulled her aside.

“Cobb, you'd better get out of there,” he said into his mouthpiece. “We made contact but he's leaving the gym just now.”

Cobb swore. “ _Alright. You'd both better get out, then. We'll reconvene up above. Arthur, you sit tight for now._ ”

They met back in reality -- all except Ford and Arthur, who had to remain in the dreamscape to keep the dream going.

“I don't understand,” Cobb said. “Why did he cut it short?”

“No idea,” said Eames. “We'll just have to give it another whirl after a day's passed.”

Ariadne had held up very well by that point, but she looked a little pale all the same.

“You want to know the weird thing?” she told Eames. “He's almost the kind of guy I'd go for, if I didn't know he's probably a psycho.”

 

+  
It would take almost two hours for a full day to pass by in the dream. Eames hooked himself up before one hour had gone by.

“You shouldn't be here,” Arthur said, startled, when Eames appeared in his safe room.

“Just wanted to see how you're holding up.”

“Well, it's boring, but at least the security hasn't discovered me yet.”

“Do you think they're looking?”

“By now? Probably.”

Arthur was sitting on the floor, back to the wall. Eames walked over and took a seat next to him.

“Do we have a new plan?” Arthur asked.

“Same thing tomorrow.”

“It'd better get done, then,” said Arthur. “I don't know how long his subconscious will tolerate us here. How did Ariadne do?”

“Not terribly. I don't like that he left all of a sudden like that, though. Like he's planning something.”

He wound a hand around Arthur's, and Arthur let him.

“Be careful,” said Arthur, rubbing his thumb over Eames' hand distractedly.

“Darling, I'm always careful,” Eames told him.

They sat, leaning against one another, holding hands, until the timer ran out and Eames woke up.

 

+  
Something went wrong almost immediately.

“ _The projections are antsy_ ,” Cobb reported. “ _Ford's just left the apartment. We can't waste any time, we're just going in._ ”

Both Arthur and Eames were silent on their ends. Ariadne was watching the projections nervously, one of whom shouldered past Eames on his way to the gym's wheat-grass smoothie bar.

In less than a minute they heard Cobb's voice again, now harried and rough:

“ _Shit. They're on us._ ”

Eames hastily beckoned Ariadne aside, all the way to one of the back doors they'd added to the layout of the gym. They slipped out into an empty alley.

“Have they caught up to you?”

“ _No, but we'll have to call it off. We can't access the apartment with them all over us._ ”

“I have a back-up plan,” said Eames. “Arthur, are you getting this?”

“ _Loud and clear._ ”

“Alright. Cobb, how long do you think you can give these projections the run-around?”

Cobb's staticky voice was full of doubt. “ _How long would you need?_ ”

“Thirty minutes to an hour? I just need you and JJ to distract the security and lead them away from the apartment.”

“ _They're all over, Eames, I don't think they would miss another break-in attempt._ ”

“I just need you to do it, Cobb. Can you?”

Cobb's reply didn't come right away. When it finally did, they heard a revving car engine in the background.

“ _Alright. But don't do anything stupid._ ”

Ariadne looked back at the gym, toying nervously with the collar of her t-shirt. “Okay, so, what's the new pl--?”

The last word was smothered as Eames struck from behind, wrapping both arms around her and clamping a chemical-soaked cloth over her face.

“I'm so sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered in her ear as she thrashed furiously, clawing at his arm. It only took a couple seconds for her struggles to slacken before she went totally limp in his arms.

Arthur was waiting at the other end of the alley for him.

“How long will it take you to get her underground?” Eames asked, transferring Ariadne to his arms.

“A hundred seconds or so if I take the back alleys you added,” said Arthur. “She'll be safe with me, don't worry.”

Eames nodded quickly. “See you, then.”

“Hey.” He half-turned. Arthur had fixed him in a burning gaze. “Come back to me, okay?”

“Of course I'll come back,” said Eames, mystified.

Arthur started to open his mouth, but then just shook his head and turned away. “See you,” he said, and was gone.

Eames didn't like to think of himself as a misogynist, and that wasn't what this was, not to him. It had nothing to do with Ariadne being a female. The plain truth was that he'd have pulled this same stunt on Arthur, if it were the point man on the line (maybe not Cobb, because Cobb was probably more capable than Eames at taking care of himself in a dream. Not that Arthur wasn't -- because, zero-gravity, and _God_ would Eames have loved to see that -- but it was _Arthur_ ). Eames was a man who knew the value of self-preservation, and did not like to stick his neck out unnecessarily. What he said was _If you're not back before the kick, I'm leaving with or without you_ , and he meant it. But there was something about _this team_ , and somewhere along the line, he'd stopped meaning it. Some part of him just couldn't handle the thought of Ariadne doing this.

He pulled together his disguise hastily and went back inside. He did not have to wait long for Ford to spot him.

“I was wondering if you'd show up.” Ford approached from behind, a smile in his voice. “Katy.”

“Hi.” Eames-as-Ariadne turned and smiled brightly at him. He wasted no time. If Ford wouldn't make the first move, Eames would have to. “Listen, I did something really dumb. I forgot to bring any juice with me and my blood sugar's getting low.”

Ford blinked. “You could get a smoothie?”

“No money.” Poor Ariadne. He really was making her look like a bimbo here. He twined a strand of hair around his finger and smiled. Ford liked the colour of their hair. “So I'll have to get going. Unless you've got any snacks? My apartment's, like, twelve subway stops away.”

Ford seemed surprised, but he didn't question the random onset of hypoglycemia, nor why somebody would choose to be a member of a gym that was, like, twelve subway stops away from home, nor how _Katy_ had seemed to anticipate that his apartment would, naturally, be closer. He was dreaming and he was deep: these were all normal-seeming things. Either that, or he was as stupid as Eames was pretending to be.

 _Do it, you prick_ , he urged silently. _I'm practically handing her over to you._

It didn't take Ford very long at all to decide where he wanted this to go, because he recovered in a snap. “I do at my apartment. It's just down the street from here.”

Eames let Ariadne's face light up. “That would be perfect, thanks so much.”

He was surprised at how calm he felt, walking alongside Ford to the apartment. He'd expected nervousness, even anxiety or some form of regression. Instead, he only felt a cold, calm indifference. Was that bad? He had to wonder at himself. Did his mind feel it was back on familiar territory, leading a mark back to a bedroom in the form of some pretty young thing, tailor-made to their interests?

In the street, car horns blared, brakes screeched, and people shouted. The projections were starting to get riled up. He'd have to be fast.

The apartment, once they'd climbed three flights of stairs to reach it, was no surprise. Immediately inside were empty cans of beer, a TV, and a game console. The whole place smelled almost nauseatingly of weed. It was dark and unclean, the lair of someone who couldn't be bothered to take care of his things. Eames feigned interest.

“Nice place. Do you share it with anyone?” he asked, wandering around freely while Ford watched him. “Mind if I look around?”

“Just me, and no problem,” he said. “I'll see if there's anything in my fridge for you to eat.”

He was sort of nice, in an odd way. If he wasn't a rapist and killer, Eames thought, he was definitely some sad, lonely person who'd never been hit on by anything as attractive as Ariadne since his girlfriend had died. The way his eyes tracked her form, he was either soaking up her attention like a starving weed to sunlight, or imagining what she'd look like tied to his bed.

And still, no fear. Just a small, indignant flutter of protectiveness on Ariadne's body's behalf.

Eames dove into the bedroom as soon as Ford disappeared around a wall. There was only the three squashed rooms -- if they could be called rooms, since they had no actual doors -- kitchen, den between, and bedroom with attached bath. He almost fell flat on his face tripping over the sea of dirty laundry on the bedroom floor. The whole room smelled musty and unpleasant.

Cobb had probably checked the places one would usually hold a secret: the closet, the dresser, the mattress. Since he had a minute or less, Eames immediately ticked those off. Cobb would have been thorough. But Cobb also wasn't a professional thief, and the first thing Eames pounced on was the bedside table. He slid open the top drawer. It was empty. He knocked on the top of the table. Instead of a hollow report, it gave a muffled thump.

 _Oh_ , this had to be a record. Even for Eames. He reached inside the top drawer and let his fingernails scrabble against the wood backing before he found a hold and slowly pulled out the secret drawer.

Where would the layperson put a secret if he had only the most basic grasp of subcon security? Not in a safe, nor a bank vault, nor safety deposit box. Eames couldn't believe they hadn't thought of this before.

Inside the hidden drawer were photographs. Not one or two, either. Hundreds had to have been crammed in here. Eames rifled through them swiftly, naming the girls that appeared in each picture. Lacey Thomas. Christie McAvoy. Maria Gilthorpe, who'd been Ford's girlfriend, the first victim. He counted them out. All seven girls, all stripped and posed in obscene ways. These were not all pictures Ford had taken. Most of them, slightly unfocused, Eames recognized to be memories.

He was just raising his hand to his collar to message Cobb that he'd done it when he heard Ford's voice behind him. “What are you looking at?”

Eames slid the drawer shut and turned around slowly. Ford was standing right in front of the door, blocking his exit, holding a knife.

Of course he was holding a fucking knife.

There was something, Eames thought distantly, that he ought to have done right then. Dropped the disguise. Contacted Cobb. Trusted the others to wake him up once they were all out.

But he couldn't think of a single thing to do. Not a one. He was a statue. Without fear, without thoughts, empty. Just a shell.

JJ opened the door and without missing a beat he jammed a taser into Ford's side. He didn't even look as the man gave a strangled scream over the ferocious electric crackling and dropped to his knees with a thud, because his brown eyes were locked on Eames'. Ford hit the floor and was out.

“I've been waiting all week for the chance to talk to you alone,” JJ said, smiling, and he shot Eames in the head.

 

+  
Eames opened his eyes, crumpled on a floor so hard, in what must have been the most uncomfortable position in the world, he felt like a goddamn cat that had just curled up for an impromptu nap. He groaned softly and raised his head, feeling something in his neck creak.

And it was definitely his neck. He was back in his own body. He wasn't in his own clothes, though. He frowned and squinted down at himself -- the room was so dark he could barely see. He recognized the clothing, though: a pair of jeans so faded they were turning white over the knees, a plain white t-shirt, a washed-out, worn old grey hoodie.

He hissed a soft curse through his teeth. These were not his clothes. These were Charlie's clothes.

His head hurt. He raised a hand to his forehead, sluggishly. Why was he sluggish?

“I didn't want to overstimulate you.”

He jumped, and felt himself recoil against a wall. JJ's voice.

Two of the walls of this room were windows, almost floor-to-ceiling. Pale moonlight leaked in through them and cast sparkles on a moving black sea outside. JJ was sitting on a bed in front in him.

“I made it dark so it wouldn't overwhelm you,” he said. “Thought it better to ease you in.”

Eames didn't say anything. Plausible deniability would be his defense.

JJ studied him for almost a full minute, maybe waiting for him to speak. Eames started to make out more than just his silhouette against the window. His eyes were narrowed thoughtfully.

“You're your own worst enemy, Eames,” he broke the silence at last. “You know that, don't you? Best forger in the world makes a name for himself, gets himself kidnapped so his forging can be put to ill use, and what does he do when he escapes the bad guys' nefarious clutches? He goes right back to forging. Do you know how _easy_ it was for me to find you?”

It occurred to Eames how ridiculous it was to remain sprawled at the foot of this wall in such an uncomfortable attitude, but the most he could do was push himself into an upright sitting position. His mind raced. He could tell he had no weapons on him. There were still no doors in this room.

“Do you know exactly how rare a man like you is?” JJ asked. “Nobody in the world forges like you. I'm a bit of a forger myself, and--”

“You're a shoddy one,” Eames interrupted him, voice husky, like he actually had been caught sleeping.

There was a pause. Eames saw JJ's lips curl slowly into a smile, and his heart sank.

“Aha,” said JJ softly. “I knew you recognized me.”

 

+  
Four minutes had passed.

“You asked Cobb for thirty to sixty minutes,” JJ reminded him. “You took less than fifteen. How long do you think I'll have you to myself down here?”

_Hours and hours._

“How'd I get here?” Eames asked, pulse pounding thickly in his ears. He felt hungover.

“I drugged you. I have connections with the chemist who designed the compound to keep you under for four months. It's what Ford's on, too. This should feel nice and familiar for you.”

He felt like shit, actually, and wondered just how big of a dose JJ had slipped him. He was deep, that much he could tell; very deep. Maybe that was why he wasn't panicking out of his mind, yet. That or because he was facing this man for the first time in a dream as himself, Eames, and not lean, whip-thin Charlie.

“Did you miss me?” JJ asked.

“Fuck you.”

“That's not what you said last time.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Eames snarled. “Why'd you bring me here?”

JJ raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Not for anything untoward, Eames, don't be so crass. I want to talk to you.”

Eames didn't believe him. Had to believe him.

“You could have done that up above,” he pointed out flatly.

“You're very difficult to get alone,” JJ said. “The way you follow Arthur like a lovesick puppydog. Or Cobb. I don't think you like Cobb as much as you do Arthur, though.”

Eames was stubbornly silent. Plausible deniability. His shoulders were rigid.

JJ chuckled, unexpectedly. “You're still so tense! Loosen up a little. I don't want you like this, Eames. Who would?”

He kept his mouth shut.

“Arthur?” JJ smiled crookedly. “Do you want him to look at you like that?”

“Fuck off,” said Eames.

“Do you want him to make you feel the way I made you feel?”

He closed his jaws together till it hurt. JJ chuckled again.

 

+  
After eleven minutes Eames managed to stand, hands planted on the wall behind him for support, head spinning. He felt a little more confident at once.

“You think that gives you a psychological advantage,” JJ observed. “You standing while I'm sitting. But it doesn't.”

“You wanted to talk,” Eames said. “Talk.”

“You're telling me a lot already,” JJ told him. “How nervous you are to be near me.”

“ _Fuck off_.”

“Your blink rate has increased since you first got here. You're swallowing more and your pupils are dilated more than they should be. You keep shifting your posture, almost as though you don't know what to settle on. Defensive, or aloof? Aggressive? Or reserved? You want to play it as though you're not afraid of me, but you can't let your guard down.”

“I'm not fucking afraid of you.”

“Eames.” JJ smiled at him patiently. “I think we've been through too much for this. You did miss me, you know. The last time I asked. I almost couldn't believe it. Everything I did to you down there, and you missed me.” Eames could feel the other man's stare boring into him. “You've been thinking about me ever since, haven't you?”

“No.” He bit out the word.

“I was so happy to see I'd left an impression,” JJ said. “So cute. You begging Arthur to fuck you. You're still such a good boy, aren't you?”

For once in his life, Eames couldn't think of a single thing to say in response.

“I had your rooms bugged, in case you spilled and I had to skip town. I was almost stumped when I found that Cobb had booked only three hotel rooms. Imagine my surprise when I found out you were rooming with Arthur. A man.” JJ laughed softly. “And you begged him, and he _still_ didn't want you.”

Eames couldn't stand it. Maybe it was because he'd managed to hang onto his own skin without changing, or because Arthur was being dragged into it, but he felt a surge of hot fury that Charlie would never have allowed himself to feel for this man. He growled impulsively, “Arthur knew that I didn't mean it. And he's not a depraved lunatic.”

“You did mean it, Eames.” Every time he heard his name, the name his team used, coming from JJ's mouth, it felt like the man was claiming just a little bit more of him. “Maybe not every time. But most times, by the end. At first you wanted it to happen because you were afraid of the alternatives. But eventually you just wanted it.”

“You're insane,” Eames told him coldly, even while the sour thought was worming its way through him: _yes_. He had meant it, hadn't he? He'd meant it desperately, with everything he had, sometimes.

“By the end, you thought we were doing something natural.” Now, JJ sounded almost sad. He said softly, “You poor, confused thing.”

 

+  
After thirty minutes Eames still hadn't moved away from the wall. JJ's attention kept him pinned there, like a bug to a card.

“Arthur's awfully quiet during sex,” JJ remarked.

Eames laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “Arthur's going to kill you in so many ways.”

“You say 'I love you' when you make love. He doesn't.”

“He doesn't need to,” Eames growled, crumbling into his game.

“It's so much easier to lie back and think of your country than it is to summon up the attraction required to fuck somebody, don't you think?”

“I think you don't know Arthur very well,” said Eames, every word crisp and cold. “You can't make him do anything he doesn't want to. And he doesn't do anything in halves.”

“You do know why he won't give head?” said JJ. “The same reason he won't fuck you even when you're gagging for it. Think of how _dirty_ you must seem to him, Eames. You beg him, and you're thinking of me. And he _knows_ it.”

“No,” Eames protested. He still felt sick and dizzy.

“Yes. You used to beg me just like that.”

“Because I had to.”

“I put no gun to your head,” said JJ. “No knife to your throat. You could have forged somebody bigger and stronger than me. You could have dreamt up an assault rifle.”

“Don't you think I tried that?” said Eames hopelessly.

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you'd kept trying?”

“Every fucking day of my life,” Eames answered, wearily.

“You chose to be Charlie. You _liked_ being Charlie, because at least he was something consistent.”

“Maybe.” His head was reeling, he was so exhausted.

“You begged for my cock, Eames.”

“I didn't want you.”

“Why do you suppose you did that?”

“Because I thought you were leaving me!” Eames shouted all of a sudden.

His chest gave an ache like a heart attack.

JJ was taken aback. He didn't even have a response lined up right away. Eames wanted to curl up on the floor and die.

“Well,” said JJ.

He stood up. The atmosphere in the room was suddenly charged with electricity. Eames shrank against the wall. He felt small. He felt uncomfortably aware that he was at a psychological disadvantage.

JJ moved within one step of him. Eames' chest fluttered for breath and couldn't quite snatch enough of it.

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes.” It was instant, automatic, tripping off his tongue before he could catch it. He swallowed and growled, “ _No_ ,” but he didn't know, didn't know anymore, couldn't remember who he was here. Eames, or Charlie?

JJ touched his cheek lightly. He stopped breathing and shut down altogether, and slumped dazedly forward into JJ's arms.

 

+  
He was on the floor again.

“Don't worry,” said JJ, sitting across from him. The room was a bit lighter now. “You were only gone for twenty minutes.”

He felt, as always, as though no time had passed at all. It was always unsettling. He looked over himself hastily. Still Eames. Thank God.

“Yes, I always knew about your little dissociative episodes or absent seizures or whatever they were. I tried to make the chemist change your compound, but all it did was decrease the frequency of them.”

Eames hauled himself into a sitting position again, his teeth chattering slightly. He couldn't think of a single way to talk himself out of this, and that scared him. His silver tongue had once held him in such good stead.

“You had one in front of Arthur, is that right?”

Eames nodded.

“Things have been harder for you since you woke up, haven't they?”

He nodded again.

“Yes,” said JJ, drawing in a sharp breath, eyes narrowing contemplatively. “Things were a lot easier before.”

He couldn't see where this conversation was going, and he could feel his mindset changing already. Part of him wanted to head any punishment off at the pass, crawl across and put his head on JJ's lap, prostrate himself in a sign of total, _work-thy-will-upon-me_ surrender. That part told him it was stupid to resist. There was only one possible way this could go, and the sooner he gave into it, the sooner they could just get it over with, with minimal brutality.

But half of him was still awake, and wary.

“Arthur is going to kill you when you wake up,” he vowed in a low voice. “ _I'm_ going to kill you.”

“I don't think you are, Eames,” said JJ calmly. “Do you want to know how I think this is going to happen?”

This time, he just barely managed to bite back the word _yes_. JJ continued regardless.

“I think you're going to wake up, and you're going to look at Arthur and feel such gut-wrenching, nauseating humiliation that you'll barely be able to speak to him for fear of embarrassing yourself around him even more than you already have. Arthur's going to shoot Ford and I'm going to suggest that we all split up. You're going to leave the apartment building, pick a direction, and start walking. I'm going to be right behind you. If you try to flag a cab, I'll follow you. If you try to tell your colleagues, I'll shoot them, starting with Arthur, because he's the only one carrying a gun tonight, and if you follow one of them, same thing. It's the middle of the night now and shootings are a frequent occurrence in this neighbourhood. Nobody will save you.

“You're going to keep walking, and within a few minutes, you're going to feel the drugs start to work again. Within a minute of that, you won't be able to walk straight. You'll collapse. And then you'll be mine.”

“You're psychotic,” Eames told him tonelessly. “Really.”

“Dreaming is very ... addictive.” An odd look flitted over JJ's face. “As you well know, or I suppose you wouldn't be here. The past year has been ... unhealthy for me.”

“How very difficult for you,” Eames sneered.

“At first I only did it to sate my curiosity. See how good of a forger you really were. You were ... beguiling. I was surprised at how willingly you played your role. I had to keep coming back to you. Pushing my limits. And you never fought me. You took it like you were born to be a whore for me. You bring these things upon yourself, Eames.”

“You seem to be under the impression that I had any choice,” said Eames.

“We always have a choice,” said JJ. “You chose to play along, so well that you even convinced yourself, in the end. You need to know,” and he threaded his fingers together in his lap and leaned forward, making Eames lean unconsciously back, “I _understand_ you, Eames.”

“No, you don't,” said Eames bluntly.

“I know that you hate yourself,” JJ told him. “You wonder how Arthur could ever love you when you yourself can hardly stand to look in the mirror. It makes you nauseous to think of his eyes on your body. You hate the way you are and how he looks at you when you do something inappropriate just because you can't help yourself. You feel like you're making his life miserable every single day, and holding him back from all the things he used to do. And you can't figure out why he wants to be with you if he doesn't want to use you for sex, and part of you is terrified by that, because you just don't see anything else that's remotely appealing about you.”

Every word was a nail through Eames' heart.

He didn't even try to deny it. There was nothing he had to argue with, anyway.

JJ got up and brushed off his pants. Eames dipped his head even lower when he approached, starting to shrink away again. He shuddered and stilled when JJ ran a hand through his hair, and his eyes fluttered shut.

“The truth is, you don't even know your place in the world when nobody wants to fuck you,” said JJ.

“Not true,” Eames mumbled, though he didn't really feel it.

JJ crouched down in front of him and ran the back of his hand over Eames' cheek. Eames had to consciously stop himself from leaning into the touch, and was sickened.

“Even when Arthur does something to make you happy,” JJ said, “it's _nothing_ compared to the rush you felt when I did you any sort of kindness.”

“No.”

“Yes. I know you, Eames. Nobody ever made you feel like I did. I could tear you down and build you back up using my words alone.” He cradled Eames' face in his rough palm, stroking with a thumb. “Do you know why you missed me when I left you down there? Why you begged me to fuck you so that I wouldn't go?”

Eames shook his head mutely.

“Because everybody who paid to use you came for the sex,” JJ told him. “But I came for _you_. I made you feel wanted. I called you by name and talked to you and almost made you feel human again. You didn't know how badly you needed that. You needed me.”

JJ had both hands at Eames' face now and he leaned down and kissed him. Eames let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thump, a weak sound of protest in his throat, but he didn't fight because he knew the rules and because he was good.

He hated himself so much.

 

+  
“I don't want you like this,” JJ reminded him, when he'd gone back to sitting on the bed and given Eames room to breathe.

“If this is to happen, you should understand I won't go quietly.”

“What's waiting for you on the other side, Eames?”

He took a full few seconds to force his brain into grinding out an answer. _Arthur. Arthur._

_Right?_

His doubtful silence made JJ laugh.

Eames was curled against the wall and he dropped his head into one hand. This wasn't inception. But the man facing him had torn down Eames' mental defenses now and many times before, and the tears that burned the back of his eyelids felt very real.

 

+  
The longer he was down there, the lighter the room became, the sicker and dizzier he felt.

“How much did you give me?” he slurred. A sedative should not make him feel like this in a dream, especially two levels down. Ford had been under nice and deep, and hadn't suffered any ill effects. Eames had never felt like this when he'd been comatose.

“I may have given you more than a sedative,” said JJ.

“You put drugs in me.” He was sure that some waking part of him, very far away, felt horrified.

“Only to help you relax.”

They were working, then, because Eames was still crumpled at the foot of the wall and couldn't find it in him to get up. He didn't know what the hell they were waiting for now. Why JJ didn't just kick him out of the dream and start executing his plan was beyond him, because Eames was pretty sure, up top, he'd be as useful at resisting as he was down here.

The fire was fading in him fast, dwindling to a spark.

“You won't fight as much as you think,” JJ was saying. “I'm going to take good care of you. I'm going to give you everything you want.” He chuckled. “You should have seen the amount I was going to buy you for. I should thank Cobb and Arthur for liberating you.”

“How did you find me?”

“I secured this job. I gave Ford some lessons in subcon security while McAvoy thought I was trying to extract from him, so that I would have an excuse. I put the word out for a forger and everybody pointed to Cobb.”

Eames would try very hard not to blame Cobb. He could only blame himself, after all, for so stubbornly going through with it when Arthur had protested and Cobb had given him several outs. He really had brought this upon himself.

“And why am I here?” he demanded again, tiredly.

“I told you,” said JJ patiently. “We needed to talk.”

“We've talked,” said Eames. “I want out.”

“We need to talk because I don't want this to be violent, between us, Eames. By the end of tonight you're going to be glad to go home with me.”

“And why, in God's name, would I be glad for that?”

“Because,” said JJ, “the alternative is to go home with Arthur, spend another awkward year trying to make it work, and failing, because of you. He's going to drift further and further from you because you're too limited in bed to hold his attention, or one day things will go too far and you'll have to leave because one of you's done some minor, petty thing to set you off, or you're just going to stay together, day in and day out, draining all the potential out of his life and turning him from the world's most lethal point man to a goddamned babysitter, all because he might have been attracted to you once and wishes, someday, that he could recreate that.”

It had stung and goaded him, at first, to hear JJ bring Arthur into this, but by now Eames had gone strangely numb. He just listened, dull-eyed.

“But I never stopped wanting you,” said JJ, “and you've never stopped at anything to get my attention.”

Eames wanted to go to sleep, but he was already dreaming.

“Everything will be so much easier for you now, Eames.”

“You're right,” said Eames. He wanted to sleep, cry, throw something. Give in. “You're right.”

 

+  
He knew why he was here.

He knew what JJ wanted, would not let him go until he had.

The look that burned in the other man's eyes when Eames shrugged out of his own body, slipped easily into Charlie's like no time had passed at all, was positively inhuman.

They stared at each other levelly.

“Get on the bed,” said JJ. There was gravel in his voice.

Eames hauled himself upright on the wall and staggered to the bed. He crawled onto it and dropped flat on his stomach.

“You're _perfect_ ,” JJ growled. He was moving over Eames, shoving him onto his back. Eames just looked at him, silent, calm, empty inside.

JJ kissed him again. Eames parted his lips compliantly and JJ was fucking into his mouth with his tongue, hot and possessive. His hand was knotted in Eames' hair. Eames felt like the last ten months of his life had been spent waiting for this, had maybe even been pushing him toward it.

“Take off the hoodie,” JJ breathed against his mouth.

Eames did that, too, squirming out of the garment, pinned under JJ's hips and not breaking eye contact. He threw it off the bed.

“ _Fuck_ , you're good,” JJ purred, and Eames' eyelids lowered in wordless response.

He reached one hand up to grip the hem of JJ's jacket, a smooth, expensive-looking leather jacket that was very different to the touch from the white suit, gave it a little tug, and JJ chuckled. He pulled the jacket off and cast it aside, then gripped Eames' wrist and brought his hand to the crotch of his pants. Eames smoothed his palm over the heavy erection he could feel pressing against the material, and began kneading expertly. JJ moaned into his mouth, kissing him again.

“ _Charlie_ \--”

He was completely rapt, so caught up in Eames that he didn't even realize he was not the one in control anymore. Did not even feel the arm Eames wrapped around his waist, as though to press them closer together; not until after his hand had closed on the gun JJ kept tucked in the waistband of his pants, at the small of his back.

JJ always had a gun.

Eames yanked it out and coldcocked him with it as hard as he physically could.

They both rolled, JJ with a strangled yell, twisting away, Eames following him across the mattress. He slammed the butt of the gun into JJ's face again, and again, pistol-whipping him with an angry snarl.

“Did you think I would go _easily?_ ”

JJ swung an arm up and Eames struck it away, putting the gun up right between his eyes.

“You pathetic piece of shit,” he spat raggedly. “You're nothing but a sad, horny fuck who's probably got a prick so small in reality he can't find anything to fuck but a broke-down fantasy. I'm _talking!_ ” he barked, when JJ blinked and began to move. Eames promptly shot him through the shoulder. JJ howled and Eames shoved the gun into his mouth, to the back of his throat. He shed Charlie's appearance distastefully and leaned down over JJ's face. He was breathing hard.

“My mind is not a toy. My mind is not something you can violate at will. My mind belongs to _me_. Do you understand?” He shoved the gun deeper, making JJ gag. “Do you _fucking_ understand me?”

JJ started to nod, eyes streaming, and suddenly retched. Eames pulled the gun back, in time to be spattered with flecks of blood. He scowled and dropped his gaze, not immediately understanding what he was seeing.

A small patch of blood had appeared on JJ's chest, below the reach of the slick, bloody stain on his shoulder, and was slowly but surely spreading. JJ's breaths were rattling, wheezing, wet, his eyes wide and panicked with incomprehension. The ceiling was rumbling above them. The other dream was collapsing.

Eames laughed harshly, and it sounded nearly like a sob.

“You're already fucking dead, mate,” he said brokenly, and shot himself.

 

+  
He was only on Ford's crumbling bedroom floor for a second or two before he was snatched out of the dream.

“Eames.” Arthur's hands were on him, touching his face with concern. “Jesus. You're awake.”

Eames pushed him off quickly and looked around, trying to get his bearings. The loft was nearly empty. Cobb and Ariadne were gone. Only JJ was still hooked up to the PASIV.

He gave another rasping wet gasp. Eames twisted round sharply, hand clenching around a gun that was no longer there.

Arthur caught him by the shoulder, sending an involuntary shudder through him.

“He's still dreaming. Did you find out if Ford--?”

“He's guilty,” said Eames. Arthur raised his arm and there was a muted _crack!_ as he shot Ford through the head with a silenced gun, dispassionately, barely glancing at him. He had eyes only for Eames.

“Did he hurt you?”

“Ford?” said Eames groggily.

“JJ.”

Arthur's voice shook slightly. That caught Eames' attention. He looked Arthur in the eyes, and shook his head an inch from side to side.

“How'd you know?” he asked, voice thick with sleep.

“I saw the way you looked at him when we met him. I found your bodies when I went looking for you in Ford's apartment. I shot myself out of the dream, and I thought you'd already be here, but goddamnit, Eames--” His voice very nearly broke, and he touched Eames' face again, compulsively “--I _know_ when you're having a nightmare.”

His touch shouldn't have made Eames feel sick, but it did. He tried to stand. Arthur had to help him, and Eames had to let him.

“I sent Cobb and Ariadne away. They left the dream before I did. I had to go back for you.”

“I'm okay,” said Eames, unconvincingly. He was covered in sweat. He ran a hand over his forehead and tried to avert his eyes from the mess that was Ford's brains on the wall.

“Come with me.”

Arthur took him by the hand. Eames had had enough of fighting. He allowed Arthur to lead him out of the loft, down the first flight of stairs, before he remembered and dug in his heels.

“The PASIV. He's still alive.”

Arthur gritted his teeth. “I wasn't aiming for his heart,” he said, and tugged at Eames' hand.

“Arthur,” Eames pleaded, not understanding why he was doing this, walking away from the predatory monster upstairs.

“I gave him one of Ford's sedatives and shot him in the lung. It'll take him a few hours to die. I want him to spend at least a day and a half choking and drowning in his own blood in the dream.”

His voice was unaffected and cold. He started to walk away, moving for the stairs.

“Arthur,” said Eames again. Arthur looked up at him again, furiously.

“I know he hurt you.”

“I know,” said Eames weakly, “and he deserves all the hurt in the world, but all the same, love. We're not him. We don't use the dreamspace to hurt people.”

Arthur just looked at him, frustrated, not understanding. Eames wanted to let it go. JJ deserved it, dying down there, choking on blood, bullet wound through his shoulder, but it wasn't right and somehow, he hated what he could see in Arthur's eyes.

“We don't do this,” said Eames. “We're not like them.”

Arthur set his jaw. For a minute it didn't look like he was going to move.

Then he turned and sprinted back up the stairs. Eames heard a second sharp _crack_.

Arthur reappeared with the PASIV in hand and gun tucked out of sight. Eames couldn't see the loft upstairs, couldn't hear, and therefore could not know whether Arthur had actually put the second bullet in JJ or fired into the wall and walked away. He decided it didn't matter.

“Let's go before any of the neighbours hear us,” Arthur said. He took Eames' hand to lead him down the stairs again.

By the time they reached the street, Eames' steps were dragging and slow. He was panting, his vision blurring, and he remembered what JJ had said to him.

“Arthur,” he said faintly.

“What's wrong?”

“I'm going to pass out in a minute.” The mild night air felt freezing cold on his clammy skin. He fumbled to grip the side of a building, trying to stay upright. “I'm going to ... I don't know when I'll wake up ...”

And then Arthur was there, sliding one of Eames' arms around his shoulders, supporting him easily, no longer angry and cold, but gentle and real.

“It's okay,” he said softly. “I'm here, and I'll get you back to the hotel. I'll take care of you. It's okay.”

“I know,” said Eames, closing his eyes. “I trust you.”

He stumbled into Arthur's side as his legs gave out, and the last lucid thought he had before he let the darkness swallow him up was that as soon as he could move, he was going to book a flight to Mombasa, and never set foot in Paris again.

It wasn't inception, that was the problem. It had all been the brutal truth.

+  
+  
+  
 _Three Months Later_

“Hello, Eames.”

Eames heaved a big sigh, and regarded Cobb over the rim of his sunglasses.

“You only come visit me when you want something.”

Cobb gave him a wan smile. He was dressed all wrong for Mombasa, in one of those heavy coats of his, heedless of the sun that beat down on them. He'd appeared from the crowd out of nowhere, suddenly standing next to Eames' table with his hands in his pockets.

“I wanted to talk with you.”

“Once again,” said Eames, tossing back the last of his drink, “Arthur doesn't deign to show his face, I see.”

“Arthur doesn't know I'm here.”

Cobb took a seat in the chair opposite Eames, not waiting for an invitation. Eames pulled a wry face but lowered the book he'd been reading.

“And how is young Master Arthur?”

“He's been better,” said Cobb. “He thinks he did something wrong. He's still trying to figure out how to fix it -- or if you'd even let him.”

Eames waited. But Cobb simply raised his eyebrows, as though he expected Eames to say something. Eames felt a needle of frustration.

“If you're here to beg me to return to his arms ...”

“I told you, Eames. I want to talk.”

Eames didn't trust _talk_ s and he had good reason to. He dog-eared the page of his book and said in a tone that brooked no arguments, “Speak your peace and leave, or I'll spare you the trouble and just go myself.”

“I'm not happy about how you handled what went on in New York,” said Cobb.

“I'm very sorry. I'm sure you'd have handled it in a much more manly and forthright fashion, Cobb. I applaud your hypothetical aplomb. You didn't have to come all the way to Kenya to judge me, though. You could have done that from the States.”

“If this is _really_ how you handle things best, then fine, I'll go.” Cobb's gaze was very steady and prying. Like he was extracting without even getting up from his seat. “But if this has been about you trying to hide from Arthur, and deciding what's best for your relationship without even asking him, then I can't say I'm too impressed.”

Out of habit, Eames found himself putting a cigarette between his lips and lighting up, giving his hands something to do for the time being. “Our relationship is none of your business.”

“You hurt him and that makes it my business.”

Eames grimaced. “Is this a protective, big brotherly talk? Are you going to hit me?”

“You're his first relationship with a man, Eames,” said Cobb, his gaze sharpening intently. “Did you know that?”

The cigarette almost fell out of Eames' mouth. All he could do for a minute was gape.

“Hang on,” he said at last, and his voice was even rougher and huskier from the smoke. “You're saying ... that when I ... Christ, Cobb, was Arthur a _virgin?_ ”

That night had been such a good, warm memory in his mind, one he revisited every night when he was trying to fall asleep and missing the heat of Arthur's body laid close to his; and now, it seemed like something awkward and messy and imperfect. Not what anybody should have to put up with for their first time. Eames actually winced, thinking, if he hadn't felt humiliated around Arthur before...

But that train of thought crumbled silently away when he became aware of the way Cobb's eyes were still fixed on him. Not angry, not accusing or sad, just clear and focused, and Eames felt his innards slowly grind to a halt and go cold, settling like so much heavy weight inside him.

“I said it was his first relationship with a man,” said Cobb. “Not his first time having sex with one.”

Eames just kept staring down at the table, not knowing how to react to that. He had so many different impulses, confusion, rage, pain, he couldn't even calm his brain long enough to have one clear thought.

Finally, knowing that he had to respond, he flicked his cigarette to the ground, dropped some coins on the table, and cleared his throat. “We'd better go,” he mumbled. Cobb followed him.

 

+  
“Nice place,” said Cobb, glancing around the flat when Eames threw on the lights. He had the courtesy not to comment on the four locks Eames had installed on the door.

Eames grunted. “No need to be polite, I know it's a tip. I'm in the middle of moving.”

“You're moving again?”

“Well, yes,” said Eames. “Can never seem to set down roots anywhere, that's my problem. Drink?”

Cobb declined and looked around the somewhat cluttered flat for a place to sit. He located the kitchen table and sat down there. Eames joined him, taking up the other chair.

“Not as nice as Arthur's place in Paris, either, I know.”

“It's not bad,” said Cobb. “You could do with air conditioning, though.”

Eames got up and switched on the nearby oscillating fan.

“There,” he said, returning. The fan ruffled his hair pleasantly, and he smiled, looking around the place. It was small and simple -- an Eames-ish place, which didn't look like much but was cosy and more than suited his scant needs anyway. “Arthur would hate it.”

“Probably,” Cobb agreed.

There was an awkward silence. The fan creaked and made another rotation.

“He's been staying with me and the kids,” said Cobb at length.

“I bet the little ones are loving that.”

Cobb nodded, smiling. “They like having their Uncle Arthur around. He's gone every weekend, though. He goes back to Paris, to see if you've been there.”

Eames' eyes narrowed. “Cobb, if you want to guilt me ...”

“That's the last thing I want to do.”

“Talk, then,” said Eames flatly.

Cobb sighed and looked down at his hands on the table. “How much has Arthur told you about himself?”

“Next to nothing.”

“I wouldn't be talking to you if I thought it was really important to him. I just don't think he knows _how_ to open up to people anymore. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn't know what to tell you, because he's kept everything boxed up for so long.” Eames nodded slowly. Cobb went on: “He was just a kid when we met. I was a student of Miles'. He was interested in the dreamshare technology. This was before he joined the military.”

“Arthur was in the military?” Eames said, but, hearing it aloud, was not surprised at all. “Of course Arthur was in the military. Go on.”

Cobb's lip twitched. “He was interested in different avenues of dreaming than Mal and I were. We were infatuated with the creation. I think what Arthur was always after was a way to control his subconscious -- not that it was ever out of control, not by the time I met him, anyway. He's never had the problems you and I have had. More like it was just one more thing for him to conquer. He likes to feel in control of each aspect of his life, starting with his appearance, down to the plans he lays for his job.”

Eames nodded, knowing this already.

“When we met I was Miles' best student. I started training him. Despite what you may think, Arthur was never a natural at dreaming. He didn't take to it half as quickly as Ariadne did. He just worked three times harder at it than anybody else.”

“Naturally,” said Eames.

“And he had no one,” said Cobb. “No real name and no family.”

“He told me you took him under your wing.”

Cobb nodded. “Me and Mal. But like I said, once he mastered it, he started wanting to explore different avenues. He wasn't satisfied with creating. He turned to the military and became their star pupil, instead. He never forgot us, and he came home whenever he could, and I thought he might have found a way to be happy. But one day he came to me and he asked me to perform an extraction on him. He wanted me to take away some memories.”

“Not possible,” said Eames bluntly. “Else I'd have asked you myself.”

“I know,” said Cobb. “Miles told us as much, and that, of course, it's illegal, too. But we were still learning our limits, after all, and eventually I told him I'd try. Arthur was my first extraction job.”

“And what happened?” Eames asked.

Cobb laughed cheerlessly and dragged a hand through his hair. “He had to show me the memories he wanted extracted. It was hell just trying to get to them, and when we did-- And the whole time, he was so calm. Didn't even flinch.”

Cobb fell silent, and for a time, Eames didn't know what to say.

“I tried to do it,” said Cobb, eventually. “But of course it can't be done. He just thanked me for trying, and never talked about it again. Shortly after that he deserted the military and moved on to crime.”

“How old was he?” Eames asked quietly.

“Old enough that the memories were pretty clear. Hard to tell, I didn't ask.”

“You never tried to talk to him about it?”

“I tried,” said Cobb. “He'd just look right through me.” He paused, exhaled slowly. “There's a reason I'm telling you this, Eames. And it's not to make you feel guilty, or sorry for him, or make you go back to him, or try to fix him. To him, there's nothing left to resolve. I think he honestly copes best by not talking about it or thinking about it. He'd already dealt with it and moved on by the time he met me. I never saw any trace of abuse in his mind, the whole time I was training him and all the years I've worked alongside him -- and I've seen abused minds.”

“Mine,” said Eames.

“No two people handle trauma the same way, Eames. It's why there's no cut-and-dry, step-by-step process for healing. You know that.”

Eames nodded. His throat felt dry. He wondered, how had he never been able to see? All the signs had been right there. Arthur was so repressed, it took Eames' breath away. Even if he had moved past it a very long time ago, it was still imprinted on so many facets of his character; the very reason why extracting memories so frequently failed. The way he felt most comfortable wrapped up in three layers of suit (even his sleepwear, a shirt and pyjama pants, was conservative compared to Eames' boxer shorts). How he'd been so wary of physical contact that for two months he'd stiffened every time Eames put an arm around him. Why his subconscious was so particularly cold and aggressive towards perceived threats. Why he never, ever cried, not even after Mal died. Why he'd said that sex didn't matter to him. Christ. Why he didn't want to give head. Eames had asked Cobb what would have happened if it had been Arthur who'd been taken, and Cobb had said he'd have lost his mind.

Arthur would never let another man bully or brutalize him--

Because Arthur never made the same mistake twice.

“It doesn't give him any deeper understanding of you,” said Cobb. “Just to be clear on that. I'm not trying to tell you he knows what you're going through. He's still Arthur, and he's still bad at handling emotions. He didn't react the same way you did, he just ... went cold. I don't even think he'd relate the two things, because that's just the way he is.”

“Why tell me, then?” Eames muttered, wishing already that Cobb could just dip into his head and take back the knowledge, pretend this conversation had never happened.

“Because if I didn't, I don't think you'd believe what I'm about to tell you,” said Cobb. “I know what you're afraid of, Eames. You're scared that he's blaming you for all the things that are beyond your control. But however Arthur feels or thinks about what happened to himself, there's still something he shares in common with you. You've been worried all this time, but Arthur is actually the last person on Earth who would blame you for being victimized.”

Eames let his head droop like an abashed dog. He didn't know what to say.

“You want to know why Arthur is so loyal to me?” Cobb pressed on. “It's because I saw the face of his nightmares, and didn't turn away. How could you think he'd do anything less for you?”

 

+  
Being with Arthur was definitely the hardest thing Eames had ever done in his life. Being a captive had been simple compared to this. At least the misery was constant, none of this jerking-around, up-and-down, high-low bullshit that kept him breathless and scared and on his toes. At least he knew what to expect.

Deciding to be with Arthur was the hardest thing Eames had ever done or would ever do in his entire life, but deciding to go back to Arthur was a very close second.

He went on a weekend, when Cobb had assured him Arthur would be there. Flying into Paris, the Eiffel Towel had never looked so dark and foreboding. The sky was grey and cold, and he hoped it wasn't an omen. He knocked on the door of Arthur's flat.

Arthur's face registered nothing when he laid eyes on Eames. No anger. No betrayal. No happiness. No giddy, joyous relief (Eames may have been stretching optimism to the point of foolishness with that one).

“Hello,” he said, with what he hoped was a winning smile, but felt quite feeble.

“You didn't call,” said Arthur bluntly. “You didn't even leave me a note. I've had Yusuf checking every week for me that you're still _alive_.”

Eames let his smile fade. “You could have come in person, darling.”

“Could I?” said Arthur, scrutinizing him. “You left me. I thought you didn't want to see me.”

“I just needed some time to sort my head out,” said Eames, which was, after all, true. “I'm back now and you don't have to let me in -- but I wanted to show you some things. And tell you some things. And you don't have to listen, either, but if you'd let me ... well, I'd like that.”

Arthur's eyes narrowed, and Eames nearly winced. Yes, he'd heard how lame it sounded, too.

When, after a minute, Arthur had made no move to stop blocking the doorway, Eames said hopefully, “So ... can I come in?”

Arthur sighed. “Yes,” he muttered, and moved away. “You can always come in, Eames.”

 

+  
He hadn't gotten rid of Eames' stuff. Eames had been thinking of it as “Arthur's flat” all this time, but over the months, enough of his belongings had infiltrated that it could no longer be recognizably called Arthur's alone.

“There's something I wanted from you, first,” Eames said, once they were inside and Arthur was clearing away his laptop from the couch.

“Tell me,” said Arthur.

Eames waited until he had all of Arthur's attention. “I'm going to ask you a question. This is quite probably the only time I'll ever ask you to reply to me with an entirely open, honest answer. I don't mind if your answer is 'I'm not comfortable answering that,' because at least that's still being open with me, just ... please, don't stonewall me.”

“Okay,” said Arthur warily.

Eames asked: “Why don't you like elevators?”

Arthur's reactions were so miniscule that it would have been difficult for anybody but a practised forger like Eames to follow them. For a moment, Arthur looked perplexed. Then his confusion turned inwards, as though he was trying to pinpoint when and where this phobia had actually originated. Then he looked mildly stumped.

And then: clarity snapped over his face.

He squared his shoulders and shifted his weight from foot to foot, and Eames knew he wasn't stalling, just thinking, trying to put all his words in the right order before he said them out loud.

“When I was growing up,” Arthur said carefully, “I lived on the fifteenth floor of an old apartment building. Once a week my dad would pick me up from Little League practise. The building was old and the elevator was small and slow. Once we got inside, he used to touch me. It was old,” he said, like he was trying to explain, and up until this point every word had been methodical and precise, but Eames heard the slightest break in his even tone, the tiniest of chinks in his armour, “and usually he waited till we were home, but sometimes the elevator jammed, and you can't leave an elevator when it's jammed ...”

Eames stopped him, pressing light fingers to his lips.

“Okay,” he said softly.

Arthur's eyes betrayed a hint of relief. Then he frowned.

“This doesn't change anything.”

“I know,” said Eames.

“I'm not a different person.”

“I know.”

“And it doesn't mean I know how you feel, or anything. When I found out you'd been taken, and what for, I thought I'd be the _least_ able to help you deal with your issues. It's not like -- like we're in some kind of club, and I must be able to relate to you because they give it the same term. What happened to you was far worse.”

“Don't trivialize these things, Arthur,” Eames interrupted him. “Don't.”

“I'm only saying.” Arthur looked down, uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “I'm not with you because I -- feel sorry for you or want to fix you or something -- I mean, yes, I want to help you and be there for you, but not because of that. And I _don't_ want you to start worrying about me and how I'm going to react to you, because nothing's changed. When we slept together -- I would've kept my hands behind my back and let you do anything, because I trust you. I've had a long time to square this away.”

Eames nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “For being open.”

“Okay,” said Arthur. The tension slowly began to dissolve from his frame. He let the corner of his lip quirk up, trying to bring them back to familiar ground. “Your turn.”

He didn't comment when Eames pulled the PASIV out of the closet. Just watched and complied as Eames set the timer, and put him to sleep.

 

+  
They were walking down a cobblestone street flanked tightly by sleek, tall buildings. Above, a church steeple reared up past the buildings to puncture the sky. People filed past them, speaking a garbled version of German that would have made no recognizable sense to Arthur. There were street musicians and performing artists on the corners. It was the middle of the day, and everything looked bright and colourful and decorative.

“I was in Zürich between jobs last year,” said Eames, his shoulder brushing Arthur's and leading him down the narrow street. “I stopped in Niederdorf for a drink and a falafel at lunchtime -- here.”

He stopped next to a table outside a little restaurant, its sign decorated with blue and white bars.

“That's when I ran into an old friend of mine. We hadn't seen each other for a few years. I invited him to sit. We talked over a few drinks, he asked if I was still in the dreaming business. I said, well, gambling debts won't pay themselves. He said, 'And how is the forging working out for you?' I told him I was still the best. Joking with him.

“He slipped something in my drink. I didn't see him do it. The next time I was truly awake, you had your arm around me.”

Arthur glanced over at him, his brow creased slightly.

“I'm sure he had his reasons,” said Eames quietly, staring down at the cobblestones. The dream dissolved.

 

+  
“The casino,” said Arthur.

Eames nodded, looking around slowly, forcing himself to take it all in. Arthur walked forward, examining the place. He watched the projections.

“It seems so jarringly cheerful,” he murmured at last, and this was so far from what Eames expected that he laughed.

“It does, doesn't it?” he said.

Arthur explored. Probably studying the architecture and structure, of all things, Eames thought with a sigh. He looked at the projections and dealers sitting at tables and playing poker and blackjack and craps, ran his hands over the slot machines.

“They play themselves,” he said.

Eames walked over to join him, hands in his pockets because he didn't want to touch anything here. As they watched, without anybody there to push the button, the mechanical reels of one of the slot machines began to spin, the brightly-coloured symbols becoming a flashing blur. The jangling music it made as the reels spun made Eames grimace and then wince, three times in succession, when it landed on three symbols with a cheery _plink! plink! plink!_

“But nobody's playing it,” said Arthur, glancing down the row of slot machines.

“I never noticed,” said Eames.

“Didn't you ever play?”

Eames hunched his shoulders and shook his head.

“But what was the point?” Arthur asked, eyebrows pulling together. “Why a casino?”

“Because I wanted something familiar,” said Eames. Slowly, falteringly, he pulled one hand out of his pocket and laid it on the side of the slot machine. The light on top of it flashed happily in response. “I wanted something noisy and loud to be a voice for me. Casinos made me happy so this was what my mind dreamed up. The architect couldn't get rid of it. Neither could I, after a time, for that matter.”

“Is it a maze?” Arthur asked, as Arthur naturally would. Eames chuckled again.

“No. I was never good at mazes. The point wasn't to hide. This was just a limbo -- sort of a waiting room, an in-between place.”

He was still touching the slot machine. He thought it would make him feel soiled, somehow, to come here and touch anything, but it didn't. Arthur tilted his head.

“D'you know it's stupid and weird, but in some ways, I actually miss this place,” said Eames with a rueful, lopsided smile, and Arthur didn't give him a weird look. He didn't say anything or turn away. He smiled back, and took Eames' hand.

 

+  
Arthur shied from nothing Eames had to show him. It wasn't meant to be graphic or in-depth or anything, it was little more than a brief tour of Eames' mind. Their problem, Eames had come to realize, was that neither of them could read minds. So he laid himself bare to Arthur: an Eames-to-rationality dictionary. He translated along the way.

It started from the mundane, atop Tower Bridge ( _This is why I don't like walking on big bridges_ ) to deeper and deeper memories ( _This is the room where it was pitch black and they gangbanged me here, and that's why I was scared of the dark for all those months and you had to buy nightlights_ ).

His encounter with JJ had given him something of a revelation: Arthur might cope with things that happened to him by tucking it out of sight, but that wasn't enough for Eames. He needed to explore it, open the wound back up, take a look, talk about it. He wanted to confront his demons. Having Arthur at his side fortified him, made him feel like he could take on his memories, and win, because he wanted it. For three months he'd been idling, but now he felt ready to take back control.

And Arthur did the best thing he could have done for Eames: He listened.

He smiled slightly when they came upon his bedroom.

“Not perfect, I know,” said Eames, grinning. “I'd only been in here the once -- when you were testing all those compounds for Yusuf and I had to take you home, you remember? You could barely walk straight.”

“I remember,” said Arthur, pulling a face. “You put your hand on my ass when you were walking me home.”

Eames grinned wider. “Tell you the truth, I only volunteered 'cause, well, I may have been hoping to take advantage of you. But by the time we got here you were just about unconscious, and even I'm not totally amoral. You could probably shoot me from the deepest throes of a coma, anyway.”

“Not an unlikely possibility,” said Arthur.

“I stayed and watched you for awhile. I hope you don't mind. I've always liked watching you sleep. It was the one time you looked sort of calm and peaceful and like you didn't want to knife me in the throat.”

Arthur shook his head with long-suffering patience. “You're a trying man, Mr. Eames.”

“Anyway, I watched you and I thought, this is where Arthur sleeps every night. And I suppose that thought stuck with me because sometimes, when I hid myself away up here, I'd fall asleep on the bed and I'd imagine you were sort of -- _there_ \-- not there with me, but just a couple of dreams away, lying in the same spot. Like I could reach out and touch you if I could just make our dreams line up.”

“Jesus, Eames,” said Arthur, shaking his head again. “That's sad.”

“I know.” Eames laughed. “It's pathetic how much faith I put in you, when in reality I didn't even think you _liked_ me.”

“Well,” said Arthur, smiling lazily. “Maybe it wasn't love at first sight. But you do have a way of getting under a man's skin, I'll grant you that.”

“You were the only thing I had to hold onto in the end,” said Eames, serious now. “I forgot myself, I forgot what you looked like, but I never stopped thinking how important it was to remember _you_.” He felt a pang of regret. “We should have had more time, before.”

Arthur's expression became subdued. “I didn't think I was ready ...”

“Leaving me to do all the legwork and the flirting, like a true gentleman.”

“I didn't think you were _serious_ ,” said Arthur helplessly.

“Darling,” said Eames, smiling sadly. “I've been serious about you since the moment I met you. Didn't you know?”

 

+  
For the last time in Eames' life, he reshaped himself to Charlie's form.

“This is Charlie,” he said, in Charlie's voice. “You'd like him. He likes Rembrandt.”

Arthur seemed momentarily taken aback. He took Charlie in slowly.

“Charlie's young,” he said finally, expression twisting with something a little like grief.

Eames nodded. The sleeves of Charlie's grey hoodie were too long for him, falling past his hands. Eames was aware of how he looked: like a stray dog, neglected for too long before being allowed to come out in the light. He knew Charlie hadn't looked like that originally. That had happened gradually. It was in Charlie's step and the defeated slope of his shoulders and the guarded way he held himself.

Eames had had to be many, many different people, but none of them bore the marks of his suffering except Charlie. Charlie seemed to carry all of it on his shoulders; not just what JJ had done but everything else, too.

“I used to hate Charlie,” he said, sitting down on Arthur's bed and looking at the floor. “I hated how weak he is. I used to tell myself that Charlie had done something wrong, somewhere, committed some evil against the universe, and he deserved whatever he got. But now -- all I can think of is how _sorry_ I feel for him.”

“You had to be Charlie a lot?”

Something gripped Eames' throat painfully tight and made his eyes sting and burn. He just nodded and gulped a breath.

“He was -- JJ's toy. He used to stay for -- months. _Months_.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Arthur's hand move compulsively. The point man didn't say anything. Eames forced in a deep breath.

“He made me--”

“Eames,” Arthur cut him off gently. “You don't have to.”

Eames shook his head and fought for control of himself.

“He made me ask him for it. If I did good he took care of me and wouldn't let it hurt so much. If I made a mistake, he'd ... dream up some punishment. He made me feel guilty for trying to keep him happy. I still can't ...”

“Eames,” Arthur said again.

His voice was perfectly, unexpectedly calm. He knelt down next to the bed, forcing Eames to make eye contact with him.

“Don't,” he said softly, “feel guilty. Don't ever feel guilty for what happened to you, or Charlie. That's -- it's fucking Stockholm Syndrome, Eames, it's not normal. You didn't have any control over it. It would happen to _anyone_.”

Eames was horrified when a tear slipped down his cheek. He reached up to brush it away before Arthur might notice, but the point man beat him to it. Eames stilled when Arthur's hand came up to his face, wiping the tear away with his thumb.

He didn't know how to react. Being in Charlie's skin had always made him feel dirty, shamefully and contemptibly unclean. That Arthur was touching him without flinching or faltering made him feel--

Well. _Better._

“I love you,” said Arthur. “I love Charlie, too. All of you. You've shown me all of it, and I still want you, Eames. Do you believe me, now?”

Eames nodded, too tired to speak. With one hand, he reached under Arthur's pillow and pulled out the gun that was always kept there.

Arthur took it from him. Pressed the muzzle to his chest, where his heart was.

“We're going to be okay,” he told Eames, with tender, absolute certainty.

He pulled the trigger.

Just like that, Charlie was gone forever.

The catharsis was profound.

 

+  
That night Eames got the first full night's sleep he'd had since first waking up in reality.

+++

The routine they settled into was sickeningly domestic and Eames loved it. Mornings were lazy affairs comprising crossword puzzles and breakfasts of eggs Benedict or French toast or crepes or whatever struck Eames' fancy; at night, they curled up on the couch and watched TV -- or one would watch while the other sprawled across their lap and read -- and retired to bed, where cuddling would commence. The days were filled with whatever they pleased, though as winter settled over Paris, cosy afternoons spent in the warmth of the flat looked more and more appealing. A couple of times they had sex, in the dark, under the covers, slow and careful and immensely intimate trysts that left Eames feeling flushed with triumph each time.

It was only a couple months of this charming lifestyle before Eames was hunched over a crossword and Arthur suddenly lowered his own paper and said, “Would you like to take a leap of faith with me?”

His smile was full of daring and affection and Eames found it impossible to say no to him.

 

+  
Eames propped himself up on his elbows as Arthur settled himself on his thighs.

“How are you feeling?” he asked conversationally.

“No need to sound so excessively cavalier about it,” said Eames, wetting his lips. “It's like this is a really big deal and you're trying to make me feel as though it isn't -- like you're a doctor about to spring a prostate exam on me or something.”

“We can talk prostate exams later,” said Arthur, unbuttoning Eames' shirt methodically. On a whim, Eames gripped his hips and pushed up with his own, bringing their clothed groins into contact with a growl.

“You'd probably love that, wouldn't you? So _sterile_.”

“By all means, keep getting yourself all hot and bothered,” said Arthur blithely. “Less work for me.”

Eames took this as invitation to rock his hips into Arthur's a few more times, until a flush was creeping into Arthur's cheeks and he made as though to push Eames more firmly onto the bed, but stopped himself in time. That was not the sort of thing that would be met too well. Eames noticed, though, and stopped of his own accord.

His shirt fully unbuttoned, Arthur let it fall to either side of his ribcage and trailed a hand over his tattoos. Then he started to scoot back, between Eames' legs. Eames obligingly spread his knees to accommodate him, though he couldn't say he was entirely comfortable about this position.

“Everything okay?” Arthur stopped to ask, his hand resting on the zip of Eames' trousers.

“Sort of a green-amber, here,” said Eames thoughtfully. They had no safeword, because it seemed like overkill -- they weren't _BDSM_ here -- but the traffic light system worked well for them both. “Mostly green, though. Keep going.”

Arthur unzipped his fly and Eames dropped flat back onto the bed, staring at the water stains on the ceiling. He felt exposed, but not yet uncomfortably so. Just wary. He bit his lip and closed his eyes as Arthur pulled his boxers down, just a bit, just enough to free his cock.

“Oh,” he heard Arthur breathe. “It's--”

“Magnificent, I know,” Eames joked nervously, not opening his eyes.

“No,” said Arthur, “well, yes. I mean. I knew you weren't circumcised, I just never ... huh.”

Eames raised his head, anxious. “Is that a problem for you?”

“No,” Arthur repeated. Eames could hear a breathy ... almost _fascination_ in his voice. “It's ... interesting. Can I touch you?”

Eames let his head flop back onto the pillow, swallowed and nodded.

Arthur started with one hand, cautious and slow. Eames clamped his eyes shut and just breathed as he felt Arthur's fingers trailing up the shaft of his cock. His touch was curious, exploring, especially around the head of Eames' cock as he pushed the foreskin back a bit. The stimulation made Eames twitch.

“Okay? Are we still green?”

“Uh-huh.”

He'd felt the first inklings of an erection while he'd been grinding himself against Arthur, but had lost it as soon as Arthur had pulled down his boxers. Now he felt a stirring of renewed interest from his cock. He relaxed and breathed. This was okay, he told himself, it was okay, and it was okay to feel good about this.

And Arthur's hand felt good. He closed his hand around the shaft and slid it up, slowly, and the sweet glide of flesh nearly made Eames make an embarrassing whining sound. He was definitely on his way to hard, now, and it was still okay.

He felt Arthur shift around on the bed, settling himself comfortably between Eames' knees, when he felt a slow drag of tongue up the underside of his cock. That time he couldn't stop himself from making a little sound. Encouraged, Arthur tried again, teasing, swirling strokes of the tongue. He felt displaced, for a moment, strangely so, because to his mind nobody had done this sort of thing to him in over six years, and his confused brain didn't know how to feel about this. So he stopped thinking and let his body decide how to feel, instead.

Arthur's confidence was growing. He wrapped a hand around the base of Eames' cock and kept going, licking, working his way up to the head, and when he finally wrapped his lips just over the tip, Eames felt himself give a juddering sigh all the way through his bones. Arthur slid his mouth down, over him, in centimetres, keeping up his slow and cautious pace and giving Eames plenty of time to adjust to the sensation; giving himself time, too. Eames felt a rueful pang -- he knew Arthur could not enjoy doing this, but there was no stopping the point man when he was determined, and their new policy of communication had been working out for them so far -- he was pretty sure Arthur would call it off if he was uncomfortable.

“Sure you're alright?” Arthur stopped to ask, after a minute.

“What?” Eames asked hazily.

“Just that you're breathing pretty hard and not talking.”

Eames quaked with silent laughter. “That's called arousal, darling. It's the state of being you've got me in, as it happens.”

“Oh?” Arthur paused for another couple of seconds. Then: “Really,” he mused, and (to Eames' relief) brought his mouth back to Eames' cock.

It may have been Eames' imagination, but Arthur suddenly seemed to be more into this. He was losing his reservations by degrees and setting up a slightly quicker pace. He couldn't take too much of Eames into his mouth at once, but he worked his hand in the same rhythm. After awhile Eames could no longer take it; he had to prop himself up to watch, and the sight of Arthur inexpertly sucking his cock made him burn down to his fingers and toes with lust. Arthur was focused intently, the way he was when he was at work, not making a sound but for the soft, wet sucking sounds that escaped the seal of his lips and the click of his throat when he swallowed around Eames.

Eames no longer had to convince himself that this was allowed to feel good. It just _did_.

He lasted only a few minutes and didn't know why -- maybe his nerves could only take so much of Arthur touching him so intimately, or perhaps plain overstimulation when his cock had been sorely lacking any one-on-one attention for a long time now. He grunted a warning, smoothing his hand through Arthur's hair, and Arthur tried to keep going, but when Eames came he managed only one swallow and then twisted aside swiftly, coughing and gagging a little. Eames slumped back into the pillows, his eyes fluttering shut briefly; then he rolled over to join Arthur and found that he couldn't stop chuckling.

“Terrible, I know,” Arthur rasped weakly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyelashes were wet, his cheeks flushed.

“No,” Eames said, and couldn't resist kissing him hard. The taste of himself was bitter on Arthur's tongue and he didn't care at all. He was grinning. “Perfect.”

Arthur smiled crookedly, and let Eames roll him over and pull him into a tight embrace on the bed. He was tingling with energy. He wanted to be _close_ , feel the heat of Arthur's body cradled against him, so that he could feel Arthur's heartbeat thudding steadily in his chest, because he couldn't believe that they had done this -- overcome this milestone together. He buried his face in Arthur's neck and dragged in the scent of him slowly. He would never stop being the best smell in the world, better than any wine.

“Are you quite done mauling me?” Arthur asked, voice muffled in Eames' chest.

Eames pulled back, just far enough to see his flushed face, and smiled. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ever felt so fucking right with the world, because Arthur was so good for him; but more importantly, in moments like this, sometimes he felt certain that he was good for Arthur, too.

“We really are going to be okay, aren't we?” he said.

“I'm usually right about these things,” said Arthur, laying a kiss on his collarbone. Eames ducked his head to kiss him properly.

“Yes,” he agreed, humming softly with pleasure. “You usually are.”


End file.
